


Illumination

by JetpackSunrise



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst and Romance, Friendship, Gen, IN SPACE!, M/M, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 104,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28299486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JetpackSunrise/pseuds/JetpackSunrise
Summary: When sixteen-year-old Alex signs up for a summer research project, she isn't really expecting to be stuck on a space station full of ghosts. (The space station, yes. The ghosts, not so much.)Sixteen-year-old Finn's ready for every ghost you could throw at him, but is somewhat less prepared for his entire life to be shattered. (If only he had friends to help pick up the pieces.)But sometimes, when you go on a summer camp to Saturn, things don't turn out like you'd want them to. Sometimes, you're excited to spend a couple months doing science experiments, but instead you have to face down injustice, infinity and a station full of monsters while figuring out who you want to be and how you want to change the world.Sometimes, you might discover an entirely new universe - a universe where everything is illuminated.
Relationships: Original Character(s)/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 5





	1. Cover

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Die Hard's a pretty good movie, right?
> 
> But what if Die Hard was set on a cool space station?
> 
> What if instead of Bruce Willis, it starred a bunch of high schoolers? And what if instead of terrorists, there were... monsters? And what if it was also really emotional? (As if Die Hard isn't emotional.)
> 
> Basically, this is the type of story I liked reading when I was 15, so don't expect proper literature, but do expect cool twists, exciting turns and REALLY GREAT STUFF about self-identity and getting over trauma and the Power of Friendship.
> 
> I also wanted to do a few specific things. First: write in first person, which I've never done. Second: do fancy stuff with alternating POVs. Third: write a story that takes place in approximately real time. Whether this makes the story better is up for debate, but too late now! (The answer is that it doesn't make the story better, and is also really hard. Whoops.)
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading, and leave a comment if you like it - or alternately if you don't like it, because constructive feedback's useful. Your enjoyment is basically my entire justification for writing this instead of my PhD, so... yeah. Please save me from all the maths I should be doing.

Credits 'n' stuff:

  * Cover art stolen (borrowed?) from Steve Courtney and Celsius Game Studios: www.stevecourtney.com and celsiusgs.com/drifter
  * Credit to Terry Pratchett & Bob Mortimer for discussions of magic and handrails. Also, credit to a Tumblr blog I can't track down for a pretty good post about reincarnation and dreams.



Other notes:

  * I wrote some of the chapters literal years apart, so please forgive any small inconsistencies with names, appearances, geography, and so on. I'm going through and fixing them at the moment!
  * I'm planning to put little blueprints following each character's path at the start of every chapter, to make layouts a bit clearer, but this would require a) effort and b) art, which I currently don't have the time or ability to do.




	2. Prologue

I look down at my hand, where I've written the word: " _Shit_."

Well, too late now.

I've never been to Saturn.

First time for everything.

Of course, it's not until I'm sitting in my sleeping pod that I realise I don't want to be here. The drugs are already taking effect, the sights and sounds of the shuttle around me reduced to an inescapable, broken-camera blur. On my hand, 'shit' turns into 'sdlgijs.' I want to _run_. More than anything I think I just want that _feeling_ ; that split-second, endless point in your stride when both feet leave the ground and it turns out people could fly all along. I want to feel the sun on my face, the ache of breathe in my throat...

Am I running away?

Nah. I'm running towards something.

Maybe I'm just... running.

I probably won't be doing much running on Saturn.

I sigh, and it turns into a yawn. Drowsily, I look to the pod on my right.

* * *

I'm sitting in my sleeping pod, minding my own business like almost always, when the girl next to me asks me a question.

"So why are _you_ here?"

I look at her. She asks me again. My heart skips a beat.

"Um... I don't know?"

"You don't _know_?" She squints in disbelief. "I thought _I_ was in trouble."

She yawns, and it's like I'm going to be swallowed.

"Well, good luck," she says.

"You... too?" I'm not convinced any luck is required, going into a month-long cryonap. I suppose if things go _terribly_ wrong, the ship'll explode and that's that, but it seems unlikely.

The girl lies back in her pod. Seconds later, she's asleep.

I lie down too, and resist the urge to flee.

It's quite strong.

I resist it.

The lid of the pod scythes towards me. Air hisses as it seals.

It's going to be fine, Finn. It's going to be fine.

Either that, or we're all going to die - and it'll be all your fault.


	3. Alex

There's a boy staring at me.

He's pretending not to, but he totally is.

"Looking for something?" I ask. It comes out more aggressively than I intended.

"No," he says. "Sorry." He turns away, lips pressed together in a grim half-smile, like the smile that materialises when you're giving your condolences at a funeral and can't figure out what you should do with your face.

I look away too, staring at my feet. I realise I'm not being friendly. I hate myself for not being friendly. But partly because I have an incredible headache, and partly because I'm terrified of being stranded out here in space, I don't particularly care about being social right now. The shuttle vibrates. I feel it in my seat, the engines' whine growing in intensity.

"Woah," says another girl. "Does anyone know if space turbulence is a thing?"

I close my eyes. I want to take all of her nervous energy and crush it.

 _Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out._ Lilting, seasick waves of small talk lap against my migraine. I tell my MeshMate that I _do_ need more aspirin, thank you very much, and it grudgingly complies while flashing blood-red warnings on the insides of my eyelids. There's a cooling sensation as the medicine is dispensed from a capsule inside my ribcage.

The headache relents a little; then a little more. Eventually, I start feeling human again.

I open my eyes.

I grit my teeth.

 _Okay_ , I tell myself. _Time to make some fuckin' FRIENDS._

There are five of us, in this dinky old passenger shuttle. We have names. I'm bad with names. Thankfully, my MeshMate provides helpful labels.

Sitting to my left is a girl named Izzy – she's the one worried about 'space turbulence'. If you took a cocker spaniel, a really fluffy meringue, an animatronic Disney exhibit, the entire concept of charades, plus the way a summer's day feels when it's fifty percent too hot, and put that in a blender and turned the resulting mixture into a human, that's basically Izzy (in my limited experience, which consists of ten minutes of barely paying attention while trying to avoid throwing up).

Left of Izzy is a guy named Kei. He seems alright. A bit bro-y. He strikes me the kind of person who's great at sports, smart enough to do fine at school, decently attractive with well-off parents, but not all that interesting to hang out with. He goes to the gym a lot. He has a contagious laugh. I bet if I chucked a basketball at his head right now, he'd catch it effortlessly and dunk it in five seconds flat.

Directly across from me is another dude, Marko. Marko is... hmm. If Izzy's a cocker spaniel, Marko's a panther. He's a lean steak, or chess, or a minimalist Japanese garden. He's not summer but _winter_ , the kind of winter that's both harsh and comforting, filled with skeletal trees and clouded breath and the crunch of ice skates on frozen canals. He exudes such an uncaring aura that I can't help but admire him for it.

Next to Marko is boy-who-stares. His label, according to my MeshMate, is Finn. Despite my earlier dickishness, Finn seems _fine_ , and there are four things I've already noticed. One: he's a real proper nerd. Two: he's extremely quiet. Three: he's extremely attentive. Four: he needs to do something about his hair, immediately. A few strands of his fringe are cutting across his eyes and I'm half-tempted to walk over there and yank them out myself.

I realise I'm staring and hurriedly turn away. Finn notices. He doesn't say anything.

Finally, there's me. My name's Alex, a.k.a. Judgy McJudgeface and I am, as you've noticed, both a teenage girl and a terrible person (which isn't a tautology, unless you're an asshole). I'm annoying, I'm stubborn, I'm a dirty hypocrite, and I don't know why I was chosen as one of five 'student leaders' to go on this fun-time field trip out to Saturn. I also just described somebody as a winter's day which, let me tell you, is some _serious_ bullshit.

I smooth out the fabric of my pale pink jumper, folding my arms tight.

"Does everyone know what projects they'll be working on?" I ask. "Once we get to the station."

The others turn to look at me.

"Data analysis," Izzy says. "I'm developing software to process data from a dark matter experiment. It's going to be _super_ awesome. Is your headache OK?"

"It's... better," I lie, still picturing winter.

"Do you get them often?"

"No. No, I don't." That part's true.

"What about you?" Izzy asks Kei. "What are you in here for?"

"You make it sound like we're being shipped off to a prison colony." He laughs, and even though he's hovering around 2/10 on the joke scale, everyone else chuckles too – still in nervy icebreaker mode.

"My friends do think that, kind of," Izzy says. "Normal people don't sacrifice their school holidays for science camp."

"Normal people also don't get free trips to Saturn," Kei says.

"Fair."

"Anyway, my project's related to synthesising more energy-efficient ship fuel... fancy chemistry, basically. Pretty sure I'll be stuck mixing compounds all day."

"That _does_ sound kinda awesome, though? Or at least useful."

"Sure! I hope so. What else are you guys doing?"

Marko shrugs, sitting up slightly. "Studying mating patterns of the Saturnian squid."

Kei blinks. "For fun, or...?"

"Partly to see how it affects genetic mutations, partly because my original project fell through and this was something they could scrape together."

"Oh. That sucks."

"Eh. Squids are alright." He opens his mouth to add something, then thinks better of it. Instead, he queues up some songs on his MeshMate, signified by a tiny speaker icon that blinks into existence above his ear. After a second, I send a request to listen in. After another second, he rejects it.

I resist giving him the evil eye and turn my attention to Finn.

"It's classified," he's saying quietly. "I don't think I'm allowed to talk about it."

Izzy raises an eyebrow. It's as majestic and inevitable as the birth of a mountain range. "...classified?"

"It's a government thing," Finn adds.

"A 'government' thing."

"I'm really not supposed to talk about it."

Izzy leans closer. "Is it military?" she whispers.

"No! I mean— what are you working on?" he asks me, more out of desperation than genuine interest.

The headache subsides, just for a moment. "It's definitely not as cool as your projects." I search for a way to dress up what I'm doing, to make it sound more impressive, but in the end, I settle for truth. "I'm a writer, mostly. I'll be writing about everything that goes on at the station for some newsfeeds back home. They've been doing heaps of amazing stuff here for years, with barely any recognition. So that's what I'll be helping with." I smile, my heart racing for no good reason.

"That's awesome!" Izzy says.

"Yeah, that's super cool," Kei says. "I can't string a couple sentences together to save my mum's life."

I'm pretty sure that everything Izzy sees, hears and does is 'awesome', but I'll take what I can get. And look, even if Kei's shit at English, his shirt stretches tight across his chest in a way that's fucking good (and I bet he knows it, too).

Suddenly, the shuttle rumbles.

No, it more than rumbles – it _thunders_. The entire floor drops half a metre and I'm in freefall for a sickening split-second. Restraints clutch my shoulders, hard. So do Izzy's fingers. My high-pitched "eeek!" is punched out of existence by a _BANG!_ that's physically painful.

Then the lights go out.

"Woah," says Kei.

"Shit!" Izzy hisses. Her hand's still on my shoulder. It hurts.

"Is everyone okay?" I hear myself ask.

"Sure," Marko replies.

Finn nods, barely perceptible in the darkness. My MeshMate tries to boost the brightness, the shuttle's interior re-visualised in noisy monochrome. There isn't much here – eight chairs (five occupied), some emergency supply cabinets, a single holoscreen that doesn't work. There's about ten cubic metres of space and none it looks new. Governments can't afford to be spendy these days, not compared to the corps. I recognise the stink of burning insulation from countless afternoons spent fixing bots on the farm.

"What the _frick_ just happened?" Izzy asks.

"Power failure?" Kei suggests.

"Besides that, obviously! Is the shuttle OK? Are we in trouble? Should I be screaming my lungs out before we all start eating each other?"

"There's still gravity," Finn murmurs. "That means there's thrust." He's looking around like I am, and finds nothing.

Marko smiles. "Probably just space turbulence."

Izzy rolls her eyes. "Funny."

I respect their capacity for stress-humour (strumour?), because something about being stuck in an airless void really _gets_ me – you know, the idea that you're probably the only human beings for millions of kilometres in every direction, and all that's between you and a painful death is roughly thirty centimetres of aging alloy shielding and off-white plastic bulkheads, or alternately, all that's between you and a less painful but much more _protracted_ death is a working pair of plasma thrusters. I've visited Luna more times than I can count, Mars twice, even Jupiter for a family holiday. I've saved the solar system from invading aliens in a dozen different virtual realities.

This is different. I don't want to lose my cool in public, but my thoughts are like drumsticks, brushing across the cymbal that's my spine. We woke up from cryosleep _literally_ ten minutes ago and things have already gone to shit. I wish wish _wish_ Izzy hadn't mentioned cannibalism – it's happened before, on stranded ships, and out of the people here, I'd probably be the first to go. My legs are kind of meaty, and if you amputated one and prepared it properly, it'd last the others for a week. I imagine their looks as they size me up, Kei's regretful-but-firm tone as he apologises. _'We have to,'_ he'd say. _'I'm sorry.'_

Still no lights.

Or maybe we should eat Kei first?

"I'm going to check the cockpit," I say, wriggling out of my restraints.

"Bet you it's an AI," Marko murmurs.

I ignore him.

"Be careful," Kei adds.

I ignore him too and stride towards the front. There's a pressure door there, firmly closed, but it opens without a hint of protest. The ship mustn't be seriously damaged, then. I walk through, past the cluster of stasis pods that kept us nice and quiet on the journey out. Closed, they're mirrored and featureless, like the eggs of those Saturnian squids Marko's studying. Now, with their lids arcing up over my head, they seem more like flowers.

Apart from that, there's a bathroom, a ladder to the cargo hold, and the cockpit accessway. Like I said, it's a small shuttle – not a place you want to be conscious in for more than a few hours.

Surprisingly, the cockpit isn't locked. There's a single seat, surrounded by screens and gesture scanners and touchpads. Only the central console is bright, announcing _'AI Pilot Protocol active: tampering will result in immediate lockdown. For manual emergency control, please refer to local mesh network'_. An empty coffee pod is taped to the seat, but it looks like it hasn't been used (or washed) in years.

"Hey, pilot. Wanna turn the lights back on?"

The AI doesn't reply.

A wide, curved window wraps around my head. What many people don't realise (until they see it for themselves) is that when you're in space, there aren't always stars. It's not like those wintry nights spent shivering outside your arcology, with the Milky Way a grand spray of hope across the dark. Because – here's the key – you only see stars at night, right? You only see stars when the Sun isn't there. And unless you're hiding behind a planet or moon, when you're in space... the Sun's _always_ there. Even here, 750 million kilometres from Earth, our local star stands tall against the rest of the universe.

So, as I stare outwards, there aren't any stars.

It's just black.

Eternity.

I fall into it. There are bright spots, here and there, nearby satellites or asteroids or the inner planets. My MeshMate indicates that one of them is Earth. It's nothing more than a pinprick, slightly blurred by the thickness of the window.

I raise my thumb and block it out.

No more society. No more humans.

Just me.

The shuttle grumbles, clearing its throat.

"Lights?" I ask it again.

I figure there must be a physical switch somewhere and I start scanning the control panels. This shuttle feels like one of those ancient, fourth-hand cars that threatens to fall to bits after every mildly tricky corner. We've got a few on the farm back home. They haven't driven for years, and by now I reckon they're fifty percent car, forty percent rust and ten percent spiders. Thinking that makes me think of my parents, who don't like this part of space travel either – my dad says it gives him the shivers, the way perspective makes your entire life small. It's one of the many things that we agree on. See also: the ethics of gene splicing, the role of religion in society, and pineapple on pizza.

A sheet of colour slides across the window. I look up.

We're drifting under Saturn's rings.

"Nice view, huh?" Kei says, three inches behind me.

I jump. "Aaah!"

"Sorry! We were just wondering what you were doing in here."

"Looking for a light switch," I say, a little defensively.

"Find one?"

"Yeah, nah."

I turn and his face is _right_ there – speckled blue eyes, artfully-tousled blonde hair, a small smile that's threatening to turn into a big one. I shuffle forwards, leaning on one of the screens and the others crowd into the cockpit too, Marko stealing the pilot's seat as if it's the most natural thing in the world. The top of Izzy's head is barely visible through the crush.

Saturn's rings are pure streaks of colour: brown, tan, grey, off-white, sequenced into bar-code ripples by a billion years of gravity and the occasional interfering moon. The hair-thin bands of dirty ice are solid from a distance but breathtakingly intangible up close. The planet looms behind them, a dull and desaturated yellow, marked by more painted smears: brown and blue and hints of green near the poles. An enormous storm scars the southern hemisphere, a spiralling spilled-milk vortex. Ring-shadows cut across our view like razors, harsh, dark, perfect. We're travelling at a solid 60,000 km/h but distance makes us stand still; Saturn is _big_ , hundreds of times bigger than Earth. Despite that, its rings are only a kilometre thick.

I won't lie. The view is gosh-darn amazing.

The shuttle's nose tilts. My stomach tries a backflip. (Three out of ten from the Olympic judges.) More of the planet comes into view and the cockpit suddenly overflows with reflected sunlight, everything cast in different shades of gold, our faces, our hands, our clothes, like we're already swimming through the Saturnian cloudtops. I glance sideways. Kei's still got that faint smile on his face, and Izzy's smile is wider, her face pressed against the window. Marko's fingers tap a jaunty rhythm on his armrest. Finn's expression is more neutral, his eyes focused like lasers.

I don't know these people, not yet. But I think I'll remember this moment.

I'll remember the way this control panel feels, digging into my back.

I'll remember the faded pink jumper I'm wearing, and my jeans, and my sneakers, and the way my hair is pulled into a careless braid.

I'll remember the distant pulse of my headache, how it feels like a monster screaming from behind a locked door, desperately trying to tell me something.

I'll remember how scared I was, and how weirdly calm I feel now.

 _You're here,_ I tell myself. _You're really doing this._

_You're running._

_Oh, no. Shit. Shit!_

"I forgot my toothbrush!" I blurt out.

"Huh?" Izzy glances at me.

"I'm such an idiot, I left my toothbrush on Luna." Technically, that was weeks ago now, even if it feels like yesterday. I can _see_ it sitting by the hotel sink, taunting me from the grave.

"They'll have spares at the station," Kei says. "I'd offer to lend you mine, but..."

"It was a limited edition," I reply.

Now Marko turns to look at me. "A what?"

"It was a limited-edition _Night's Dawn_ toothbrush. It was signed by one of the actors."

"Oooh, which one?" Izzy asks.

"The girl who plays Commander Kharak."

"Oh, she's great! Where'd you meet her? Do you think she died at the end of last season?"

"Spoilers!" Kei hisses.

"You just _forgot_ a toothbrush signed by Commander Kharak?" Finn says incredulously.

"Also, a toothbrush?" Marko frown-grins. "Was a signed poster too boring?"

"I – I didn't have anything else with me, alright? It was a bloody cool toothbrush! I don't have to justify myself to you!"

I can already feel its memory fading from existence, like fingerprints on an abandoned handrail.

_Fingerprints on an abandoned handrail._

_That's pretty good._

I pull a notebook and pen from my back pocket and scribble down the phrase, right above ' _It's still magic even if you know how it's done.'_ This whole manoeuvre is tricky in such tight quarters and as I put the book away I accidentally elbow Izzy in the boob. She gives me a weird look, but I think it's more for the fact that I'm carrying around a few sheets of dead tree.

"Still smells like something's on fire back there," Marko adds, pointing towards the passenger area. "Not sure if you guys know this, but spaceships aren't meant to be on fire. It's bad."

"Well OK," Kei says.

"I'm serious."

"Yeah, yeah. We'll be fine."

"You sure about that?"

"The shuttle hasn't fallen apart yet." Kei shrugs. "Besides, getting five students killed with a ropey shuttle would be pretty bad publicity, no matter _what_ corp is funding this joint. We'll be docked in literally ten minutes. It's fine."

Marko seems to think about disagreeing, but instead leans back in his seat.

"So," Izzy says brightly. "Which arcology is everyone from?"

 _Thank Christ._ "Westralia-7," I say. 

"Synth-ag?"

"Yeah."

"That must be nice. I'm from Sydney – the Alphabet dome."

My MeshMate retrieves a cached image of a vast, S-shaped bio-structure being lashed by hundred-metre waves. "Is it true you get unrestricted Mesh there?"

"Yeah! Everyone talks shit about it, but Alphabet treat us pretty well. Better than lots of other corps." She touches the back of her neck, brushing aside her long, dark hair. "Finn?"

He looks surprised about being asked to contribute. "Westralia-1."

"So you and Alex live close to each other?"

"Sort of. Not really."

"I'm inland and he's on the coast," I explain. "Basically, I make the food, and he eats it."

It turns out Marko's originally from Finland, but recently moved to Eastralia-3 for his parents' work. He says they're pretty big cats in some data management company. Kei lives in the Tesla power farm smack-bang in the middle of Australia. There's a joke that everyone who survives out there is either crazy, a robot, or crazy about robots. Kei doesn't seem to be the first two, so...

Look, I get the attraction of the whole AI thing, but some people take it _too_ far.

Izzy's asking questions and chatting away and probably doing 90% of the talking, and it's comforting, even if I'm personally more invested in staring at the fucking huge planet outside. In a way, I'm envious. People like Izzy make communities work, sending out dozens of friendly little tendrils, gluing people to other people whether we like it or not, rearranging Venn diagrams of interests and personalities so that we're clustered in that overlapping spot in the middle. She _constructs_ things, in a way that reminds me of those colourful fish that help build coral reefs.

As the others chat more about _Night's Dawn_ plot twists (I've read the books, so I stay out of it), Finn turns to me.

"Interesting start," he murmurs. He's blinking a lot, in a nervous sort of way.

"Start to what?"

"Your story. You said you were here to write."

"Oh, yeah." I'm surprised he remembers. "Hopefully a malfunctioning shuttle's the worst of it. I'll make the written version more dramatic – add a couple of explosions."

"Ha. Maybe." He thinks for a second, overcome by concentration. I suddenly realise we must have similar heritage – if my parents told me we were distant cousins, I wouldn't really die of shock. He's got the same soft cheekbones, darker skin that tans easily, hair that's murky brown and mostly straight with an irritating hint of streakiness. He's also slightly taller than me and a heck of a lot thinner. _Too thin,_ I tell myself. He'd be a useless AFL player.

"What kind of stuff do you write?" he asks.

"A bit of anything and everything? Articles, stories, opinion stuff. I did VR reviews for a while for a hell dodgy MeshHub that never ended up paying me. The last couple of years, mostly fiction." I blush. "Do you know what fanfiction is?"

"Sure," he says cautiously.

"Well, lots of that. Too much. And I write popular science articles as well, because otherwise I wouldn't be here. Most of it's dazzlingly terrible, apart from the ten percent that reaches a vaguely acceptable standard."

I send Finn some links to the better stuff, not that he's likely to read it. Or maybe he's exactly the type of person who will, in which case he's already a lost cause.

"Thanks," he says.

"No worries."

There's that grim half-smile again – the funeral smile. He turns back to the planet. So do I.

Above us, we spot a silver glint: our home for the next two months.

Unofficially, it's called Starfish Station. This is because – in a _stunning_ twist – it looks vaguely like a starfish. Five huge arms stretch from a bulbous central mass: a collection of vines, tubes and connecting tunnels squashed together like Play-Doh in a toddler's fist. (Most stations are similarly unimaginative in terms of architecture, beauty being of far lower priority than 'does it leak air?' or 'can it be set on fire?') The arms are spanned by much thinner concentric docking rings, dotted with tanks that look like blackberries. The station's surface is gunmetal grey and eerily organic in appearance, ribbed and hairy, pockmarked and smooth, all at once – an exoskeleton concealing the living creature inside. Communications towers and solar panelling and thermal radiators create criss-crossing twigs and branches, a confusion of construction that gradually smooths as each arm tapers to its point. The whole assembly spins lazily about its central axis, shimmering in the sunlight.

From this distance I don't notice any activity. A few large transports are docked at the thickest arm, and I spot a couple of blinking lights in the habitation areas, but that's it. Each arm is a kilometre in length, while the station itself is never more than a few hundred metres thick. Its orbit takes it directly over Saturn's south pole, which is what our shuttle is vectoring towards.

An alert appears on my MeshMate: < _Please strap in and prepare for deceleration >._

I look down at my hand.

 _'Shit,'_ it says accusingly.

The station grows.

We shuffle back to our seats. Memory foam encases limbs and torsos. Saturn's spectacular immensity, my useless regrets, the worrying distance between what my life was a month ago and what it's about to be... they collapse into a singularity of abstracted feeling that no longer matters. I tell myself it doesn't matter. _I'm here. I don't care why I'm here, or how I'm here, or what decisions brought me here. I don't care about regret, or being scared, or what my parents said or didn't say, because I want to be here. I_ want _to. I'm running._ My thoughts are messy brushstrokes, layer upon layer of multicoloured paint, and I just heft the entire canvas and throw it out the window. I try to, anyway. It spins in the shuttle's wake.

"No comms, huh?" Marko says.

Usually you'd expect welcome chatter, or a pre-recorded announcement, or _something_ from whatever's controlling space traffic on Starfish. The Mesh, though, is weirdly silent.

"Is _anyone_ getting a signal?" Finn asks. "I've been pinging the Mesh since we woke up, but... nothing."

"Same here," Kei says.

"It's 2099," Izzy says, with exaggerated slowness, "and the internet's _still_ shit?"

"Life's hard," Marko murmurs.

"Life IS hard! They'd better have a good connection on the station, my grandparents will murder me if I don't send an 'I'm not dead' update."

There's a _clunk_ as the shuttle's engines lock into a new orientation, then a _whirr_ more felt than heard as our final braking burn begins. It's an easy ride. The shuttle did most of the hard work while we were sleeping, so all that's left are some final adjustments as we come in to dock.

I busy myself re-reading the orientation document. _'Congratulations on being accepted into this year's CSIRO High-School Vacation Research Program! We look forward to sharing this fantastic experience with you, and hope that it will be as useful for you as it is for us. We are extremely proud of the work we do at Starfish Station and many other locations across the solar system... blah blah blah terms and conditions... blah blah blah code of conduct... blah blah blah what to bring... blah blah blah your project and our expectations...'_ Honestly, the most exciting part is the message from my assigned supervisor, who—

"I think this is gonna be fun," Kei says brightly.

Izzy: "And useful."

Marko: "And interesting?"

Finn: "Hard, probably."

There's a moment's silence. Perhaps it's a little awkward, or perhaps not.

"I just hope that it's worth it," I say. "I was looking forward to a holiday, you know? But when they asked, I suppose I couldn't say no."

"I totally get that," Izzy says. "I had barely a week after exams before I had to start packing. I'm hoping this is partly a holiday? We'll have to do work and stuff, but I bet we'll also have loads of spare time."

Marko smiles wryly. "Can't wait to spend all that spare time walking up and down some corridors. Maybe staring out some windows, too."

"Honestly, I'd appreciate it if we could minimise the depression until _after_ we've unpacked," Kei says. "Here's to the next eight weeks?"

He holds up his palm for a high five. Marko's lankiness means he barely has to move, while I'm huffing and puffing like a fusion cooling tower, fighting against the seat's overly-protective embrace.

A few minutes later, the shuttle settles into its docking clamps.

< _You have arrived >,_ my MeshMate says.

 _Thanks, friend_ , I reply.

 _< Happy to help, friend!> _it pipes back.

There's the sensation of material cooling and contracting as the shuttle's engines switch off. Umbilicals snake from the station into its belly. I feel _clanks_ under my feet, the subsonic hum of pumps. Our chairs release us, their memory foam retreating.

We stand, stretching our still-wobbly limbs.

"Our stuff's in the cargo hold, right?" Izzy asks.

Kei nods. "I checked when we woke up. Well, _my_ stuff was there, but..."

"But?"

"Now that I think about it, I didn't see anyone else's."

Izzy stares at him. "You're joking."

"Yep."

She punches his arm.

"Ow!"

" _Good_."

"Everyone's stuff was there," Kei sighs, rubbing his bicep. "Apart from Alex's toothbrush, I guess."

"Moment of silence for lost toothbrushes?" Marko says solemnly. He bows his head. So does Finn, and then so does _everyone_ , and we stand in a lopsided circle for a solid thirty seconds, remembering what it was like, before the dark times.

Until Izzy giggles.

"We need to get off this shuttle," I say.

"We definitely do," she replies.

There's an airlock at the arse-end of the ship and I take one last look at our dilapidated metal coffin, thankful that it's held off exploding until now. "It was a frickin' good toothbrush, guys."

"In our hearts it shall remain," Marko says. He sort of winks at me without actually winking, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel a little magnetism. Marko _is_ magnetic, precisely because he doesn't try to be. (Or if he's trying he's _really_ good at it.) His slouch accentuates his subtly athletic frame, and his Nordic features – pale skin, sharp face, neatly-combed blonde hair – are somehow unassuming. He's winter, but a comfortable one; one that isn't constantly warm, like Izzy, but warm just often enough.

Ugh, stop. Get a hold of yourself.

We traipse through the airlock and emerge into the docking bay.

This is it, our grand arrival. Or it would be, if there was anybody here.

Spoiler: there isn't.


	4. Alex

I'm not sure what I was expecting. A red carpet? A marching band? If so, the carpet's covered in tarantulas and the trombones can't play to save their worthless lives.

The passenger dock is a long, curving concourse that bridges adjacent arms of the Starfish. Around us are short rows of seats, benches, vending machines, and a dusty manual check-in desk that hasn't been used in years. A few scattered ferns try to brighten the place up, their long fronds swaying in recycled air, but even a small star wouldn't be much help. Most stations are grown from the same cream-coloured polymer that feels specially designed to dampen any sense of enthusiasm. A holoprojector throws a list of arrivals into the air and I notice we're not on it. The last scheduled arrival – or departure – was an ice-hauler that left for Encedalus three days ago.

The dock is deserted.

One by one, we pass through a biometric scanner, which clears us with a lonely _ping!_ The station's spin gravity feels analagous to one gee, with 'Wel ome to Starf sh Statio !' painted in faded red on the floor. I scuff the edge of the 'W' with my sneakers, then realise I'm part of the problem.

"Did we miss it?" Kei asks, his words nearly swallowed by emptiness.

"I checked the date," Marko replies. "We're on time."

Izzy shrugs. "Someone's supposed to meet us here, right?"

< _Alastair Pendant >_ my MeshMate says. _< Junior researcher.>_

"Could be busy," I reply. "Just saying, but if _I_ was a scientist with loads of stuff to do, maybe I wouldn't want a bunch of teenagers interrupting my research."

"But we're the nice teenagers," Izzy says. "The helpful ones."

"Well, how much programming experience do you have, _really?_ "

"...Fair."

The air is _frigid_ and I shiver inside my jumper. Space is cold, I guess; maybe someone's trying to cut back on their power bills. I grit my teeth to stop them chattering. Right now, back home, it's probably pushing 40°C. That's good Christmas weather, that is.

 _Your parents didn't want you to here,_ my mind whispers.

_Do you remember?_

Yeah, sure. Thanks, brain. _  
_

My mum's face, weather-lined, tear-streaked. Dad behind her, his usual rambling replaced by unpleasant stoniness. Felt like that day should've been cloudy, or stormy, but the sun glimmered like gold – dogs barking, kookaburras cawing, the crops casting tally-mark shadows in the dirt. What I can't remember is _why_ I was arguing with them. Some stupid reason. Something they said. A stupid desire to spite them for an offence that never mattered. ' _I don't want you travelling such a long way_ ,' my mum tells me. ' _Not when there's a war on._ '

 _So why are you here?_ my brain asks.

Good question.

_Because I want to be._

_Really._

I pick at the hem of my jumper where the fabric's starting to fray. In contrast, Kei's only wearing shorts and a West Coast Eagles polo and I'm surprised he hasn't already contracted hypothermia. Maybe he's one of those people who insist they're never cold when they _clearly_ are.

"Should we just wait, then?" Marko asks.

I nod. "Probably, in case somebody's on the way."

Finn's already taken a seat. He's hunched over, watching something on his MeshMate. I'm about to join him when Izzy pipes up.

"...or we _could_ go and explore?"

"What do you mean, explore?" Kei asks.

"Walk around, try find people."

"Or we could sit here and not get in trouble," I reply.

Clearly, Kei's an idiot: "Exploring sounds good."

"We should look for someone," Izzy says. "We can ask them where to go, check if we have to get... processed, or whatever. You guys haven't been able to log in either, right?"

My MeshMate tries handshaking with three different networks but is unceremoniously rejected. Technically, this is a government facility, so I'm betting that new arrivals need specific clearance. Still, the lack of connection is starting to put me on edge.

"I'd rather just wait," Marko says. "I don't want to get in trouble on our first day."

" _Thank_ you," I say.

"We won't get in trouble," Izzy says. "We're 'using our initiative'."

"I'm happy to use my initiative to sit here."

Izzy rolls her eyes with a Dickensian 'harrumph'.

Kei grins. "I'm with Izzy – what's the harm in looking? It'd be nice to stretch our legs after cryo."

"If we don't have Mesh access, I bet we can't go far," Finn murmurs.

"If the doors are locked, they're locked," Izzy says. "But if they're aren't... I say we go and find somebody."

She nods like a bobblehead, and it's like that scene in every heist movie when the greedy character tries to go off-plan and when has _that_ ever worked out well? I mean, I get it – being trapped in this extremely cold, extremely boring room isn't a great morale booster. For Izzy, that's an invitation to do something drastic; for me, it feels like a good opportunity to sit on my backside and wait for somebody qualified.

"A few years ago I was on a school trip at this nanofacturing plant," I say aloud. "The girl who was supposed to meet us wasn't there, and it looked like the entire place had been shut down. Our learning supervisor went to 'check on things' and left us alone for twenty, maybe thirty minutes? Bad idea, if you're in charge of a bunch of thirteen-year-olds. Anyway, a few people got bored, decided to go exploring, and ended up 'accidentally' breaking into a high-sec area. Guess what happened?"

"They... died?" Izzy says, wide-eyed.

"What? No! But they got caught and were thrown into a penitentiary sim for two weeks to be 're-educated'. I heard it was awful. Lots of snakes. Also, the person who was supposed to meet us? Turns out it was our supervisor's girlfriend and they had this huge fight and _kind of_ broke up in front of us. Real fuckin' weird."

There's silence, for a moment.

"Wow," Kei murmurs.

"Yep."

"So what you're saying is... since they banned using penitentiary sims on kids last year, we should _totally_ go exploring."

"No. I'm not saying that. I'm definitely not saying that."

"Fine." Kei spreads his arms. "But honestly, I'd feel way better if we saw one single person. It's hell weird, right? There's literally nobody. And I'm no sim junkie, but I feel kinda naked without Mesh access."

 _Well, maybe you should put some more clothes on._ The docking bay is a couple of hundred metres from end-to-end and minus our voices, there's only the contented hum of life support; minus us, it's a drab, doll-house diorama with a couple of shitty ferns in the corners.

Fuck it. This _is_ weird.

"Let's go," Izzy says. "Letsgoletsgoletsgo."

Marko looks at me and shrugs.

"Sure," I say, a little tiredly. "Let's find a human to talk to."

Thankfully, my headache's almost faded. As Izzy skips past I fall into step beside her, the others close behind. By silent agreement, we're heading to the nearest exit. The floor here follows the outer arc of the docking ring, which means the entire concourse has an upward curve like the world's longest banana. Generally, we're used to horizons tilting away from us and I can't help a few seconds of vertigo before my brain figures out what's up. Beside me, Izzy does the exact same thing; I grab her arm before she trips face-first into a fern.

"Never been on a ring station before?"

"Nope." She gives me a grateful and/or seasick glance. "Actually... I've never been off-world."

"Woah." I stare at her. "This is your first time off Earth?"

"Yup."

"And you came to _Saturn_?"

"That's me." She chuckles helplessly.

"Huh. You really do want to be here."

"I mean, this is definitely the best opportunity I've had to do something cool with my life," she says. "One of the _only_ opportunities I've had. How do you refuse an offer like that?"

"You... don't?"

"Exactly! So, here we are. Which _is_ pretty heckin' awesome, don't you think?"

Izzy's not just an open book – she's open ocean, waves climbing and cresting and crashing into the world. Her rounded face is alive with sincerity, eyes holding a mischievous glint, and even her hair seems to be in on it, a long, black waterfall that splashes down her back. She's a half-head shorter than I am but packs so much bounce into her diminutive frame that I can almost see myself drowning in it. Izzy's the only one of us dressed remotely formally, wearing a neat business-casual blouse and skirt, and I realise she was trying to make the best first impression she could... if only there were people to impress.

I decide we should probably be friends. (Even if she uses the word 'heckin' unironically, i.e. she's basically a war criminal.)

Marko and Kei are discussing the Formula H Grand Prix that happened during our cryosleep; I learn Marko's a Team FEISAR supporter, which _disgusts_ me, right as we reach the door.

Next to it is a map – a physical one. We crowd around, squinting at the tiny print. (It's easy to forget that most information used to exist outside the mesh. If you believe the conspiracy theories, it's because the corporations want it that way. I'm not quite that insane.) Kei folds his arms, biceps swelling majestically, and I notice his skin is covered in goosebumps.

"You cold?" I ask.

"Nah, not really."

"You look cold."

He gives me a neutral glance.

The map tells us we're exiting Docking Bay B, heading into a block of offices labelled 'administration'. We are, in fact, looking to be administered to, so Izzy and Kei lead the way while the rest of us follow a bit more uncertainly.

Honestly, though, it feels like we're walking through a regular Earth-based office. From outside, the station had a noticeably weird, organic-ky structure, but inside... well, the corridor we're in is pale and featureless, like most corridors are. Every few metres there's a door, paired with a small, tinted window. A few doors are open. Most aren't. We see offices, cubicles, rugged desks, cheap screens, oddly-shaped ergonomic chairs. Holographic spreadsheets and blueprints float mid-air. The power-saving glowstrips in the ceiling are too dim for their own good, removing any hint of shadow and replacing it with plain old gloom.

Much like the docking bay, the offices are entirely vacant.

The corridor winds leftward in a seemingly-endless corkscrew, and I realise we're spiralling our way up one of the Starfish's arms _._ We pass more offices, conference rooms, a VR workspace with padded walls.

"Hello?" Izzy calls out.

"Everyone must be at a meeting," Kei says. "Or lunch."

"Maybe," Marko says.

Suddenly, I have a brainwave. "What if they're doing a safety exercise? Like a decompression drill."

"That's... a decent explanation," Finn says.

His surprise is vaguely offensive, but I roll with it. "Right? There's an alarm, everyone has to drop whatever they're doing and pretend to hide in an airlock for ten minutes, then they come back and everything's fine."

"Maybe," Marko says again.

At the next set of offices, Kei stops. "Gimme a second."

He opens the door and ducks inside.

For a second, nobody moves. Then: "What the hell?" I hiss.

"I'm just... I'm just gonna poke around," he hisses back.

"Uh, what? You're going to get us all in trouble! _Trou_ — _ble_!"

"It'll be fine."

"No it won't!"

"Yes it will!"

"No, it won't!"

"It will!" he says. "Maybe there's a clue that'll tell us where everyone is."

"Really? You're choosing _right now_ to pull out your best Sherlock Holmes impression?"

"Sherlock who?" Marko murmurs.

I glance at him. "Oh my _gosh_." By this point, I'm pretty sure our whispering is carrying across half the system.

"Guys, just help me look!" Kei says. "Thirty seconds, then we can go."

" _Fine_." Izzy does an angry little foot-stomp, but behind it, she's concealing a rock-hard excitement boner. She skips across the threshold to join Kei among the cubicles. Marko slinks in moments later, hands in pockets. Before I know it I'm following them, even as I frown in disapproval. Weird how that happens, right?

Only Finn stays in the hallway, hiding amongst the folds of his heather grey hoodie. I suppose we do need someone to keep watch.

Inside, the office is drearily normal: three desks, three cubicles, three mesh access points. On one desk is a half-eaten sandwich of unidentifiable synth-meat and hydroponic lettuce; on another is a holo of two smiling kids, sitting on a beach with seaweed in their hair.

Perhaps it's time to go all forensics on this bitch... or perhaps this just some poor dude's office and we should mind our own business before we discover something sex-related in his Amazon history.

_But you're curious, aren't you?_

Yeah, OK. There _is_ a cauldron of wrongness bubbling away in my gut, refusing to die down even as I stamp on the fires underneath. Honestly, it's as if Starfish's entire population was magicked into oblivion literal minutes before we arrived. The air still has that distinct people-y scent, and whoever this office belongs to didn't even save their work before leaving. Now _that's_ strange, right? No ships have docked for three whole days. Is that a long time, comparatively? I don't really know. How many people _are_ supposed to live here? I also don't know. Three hundred? Five?

No ships. No people. No datastreams flickering across the mesh, electromagnetic fingerprints tracing the silhouette of civilisation.

Or, everyone's just participating in a particularly intense decompression drill.

I scribble ' _EM fingerprints tracing silhouette of civilisation'_ in my notebook, then gaze at the screen covering the nearest wall. It's a daily activities schedule, split into Earth time and station time, a week divided into blocks of primary colours. There _is_ stuff that should be happening right now – a steering meeting for something called the 'Illumination' experiment, an all-hands-on-deck cleanup of the robotics lab, a presentation regarding abnormal energy spikes occurring at Saturn's poles. I even manage to find a reference to yours truly: ' _Meet students from NYSP program'_ at 0400 station time, right beside _'URGENT: Containment system upgrade for hub – area off-limits until further notice.'_

I feel a hand on my shoulder.

I whirl around.

Kei's eyes widen at my half-raised fist. "...You OK?"

I let out a breath. "Dude, you need to stop sneaking up on me. I _cannot_ be blamed for what my reflexes make me do."

"Is that how laws work?"

"It is how my fist works." I try on a smile, and it sticks. "Sorry. Blame my friends back home."

"They sound like great friends," he says.

"Just the type who watch lots of prank videos."

"Oh. Those." He rolls his eyes, then grimaces. "I was going to ask if you _are_ okay, actually."

"Ummm... sure?"

"You seem..." He shakes his head; his height means he's sort of looking down at me. "You know what? Forget I said anything."

"Uh, okay—"

"I mean, I don't know you, and I'm not assuming anything, but I just wanted to check if you're... fine. That's all." He can't figure out what he should do with his hands, so he just leaves them dangling by his sides. "I noticed you were crying. When we woke up. On the shuttle."

Oh. That.

"Just dry eyes."

"Sure. But I know that some people, they pretend to be up when they're down, and I don't want to be nosy, but my mum was bipolar and she'd get really depressed sometimes, and—"

"I'm fine. Seriously."

"Okay! Okay. Well..." He shrugs. "Sorry?"

"Eh. Don't be."

We look at each other, or more truthfully, right next to each other. Behind us, Izzy's fiddling with a datapad, trying to unlock it. Her annoyance is increasing by the second, accompanied by cursing and threats of deadly violence. Kei's a prime example of hitting the genetic jackpot but he also strikes me as a little dopey – his expression is unexpectedly sincere, like a golden retriever eternally eager to fetch.

"Is something bothering you, though?" he asks, with admirable persistence.

I'm annoyed by how nice he's being.

Then again, I'm annoyed by lots of people, me included.

 _Well, now that we're being all forward 'n' crap..._ "I guess I'm having second thoughts," I say.

"About this trip?"

"Sure."

He half-smiles. "It is kind of scary, isn't it? Being out here."

"That's one way of looking at it."

"We _are_ literally weeks from home. If this ends up being boring, or something bad happens, we're kinda stuck. Couldn't get much further out if we tried. That's sure scary to me."

"Yeah, I..." I shake my head, biting down on the inside my cheek. "Look, I'm fine. Life's weird sometimes. Let's leave it at that."

"Sure. But if you do ever want to talk, I'm down."

He means it, even if he doesn't know what it means.

"Thanks, appreciate it. Same to you, by the way – I'm good for general chats, gossip, debates about our place in the universe."

"I'll put it on the schedule. 'Deep and meaningful conversations with Alex, 7PM.' Every night."

"Keen." I raise my fist and I'm gratified to see him flinch.

"Well, you should be, 'cause my problems are _great_."

He moves away to go and calm down Izzy.

In my head, there's less of a ' _fuck_ ' and more of a ' _faaaaaahhhhkk'_.

I'm supposed to be _enjoying_ this whole experience.

Having fun. Learning things. Making friends.

I sigh, and walk back into the hallway.

Finn's still there. He's staring at the office, arms crossed, those ever-present streaks of hair falling across his eyes. I want to believe he's thinking about something important, although I'm not sure why. Perhaps he's absorbing the hum of the station – the clicks and whispers of recycled air, the subtle chemical smell of its polymer bones, the nauseating undercurrent of unseen spin. Maybe he's looking at the name holo above the office, ' _Jira Satonaka_ ', and wondering who he or she might be.

I tap him on the shoulder. "What's up?"

He shrugs, unsurprised. "Just thinking."

I'm tempted to pry, but... right now I can't be bothered.

Eventually, the others tire of snooping.

"Find anything?" I ask.

"Nah," Kei replies. "It's all locked behind biometrics."

Izzy brushes down her skirt. "I was hoping for some juicy secret stuff... military weapons tests, or human hybridisation mods, or AI sentience trials or _something_. Why else would you bother building a research station all the way out here?"

"To study the mating habits of the Saturnian squid?" Marko suggests.

"Starfish was meant to be a deep space gateway," Kei says. "A platform to support outer solar system exploration, and to test and develop space survival technology. Before you ask, yes, I read the orientation package."

"A likely story," Izzy retorts. "I bet they're all witches. I bet that everyone on this station belongs to a coven of secret witches, and they performed a ritual to summon a dark god and messed up and got sucked into Hell. That's why nobody's around. They've all been transformed into demons."

"I'll take that bet," Marko murmurs.

Kei seems to have found, a.k.a. discreetly obtained, a.k.a. stolen a tennis ball. He starts bouncing it on the floor as we walk. Oh, right, we're walking again – definitely not turning back like sensible people. Definitely making our way further into this decrepit, deserted space station like a bunch of trespassing high-school weirdos. _Thwack, thwack, thwack_ goes the ball.

"If I was doing illegal government experiments," Finn says, "I'd build a base on an asteroid. Hollow out some caves, go underground. There's a hundred million asteroids out there, so the probabilities involved are far smaller than needles in a haystack."

I smile slightly. "Is that a Finn Fun Fact?"

"...Sure." He gives me a look.

Before long, the hallway dumps us into a circular chamber. It's what's colloquially known as a sanity room: a place with more open space than is strictly economical, perhaps with a few plants or flowers, some fake birdsong – or even better, fake birds – and other reminders of what it was like to live on solid ground with a proper sky above your head. This room has a central pillar encircled by thick, verdant creepers, growing from a tiny patch of actual dirt. Red petals litter the floor nearby, curling brown with age. The ceiling is a pretty good holographic impression of a cloud-streaked sky. Benches and tables line the perimeter, plus a couple of drink dispensers.

The illusion is good. Good enough, I think. There are far more elaborate experiences in the mesh, but it's not the same as reality, however unspectacular reality might be. If only there were _people_ here. Without them, the room's fake-ness is much more depressing.

Izzy produces a small black sphere and presses a switch on its surface. It lifts off, hovering in front of her face. She waves, gives the sphere a friendly wink.

"Hey everyone! It's me, Isabelle. Big ups to all my subscribers out there for tuning in. The trip was a bit scary, lots of space turbulence and I seriously thought our shuttle might explode, but we're safe now and _literally_ just arrived at the station. How's everyone doing back home?"

The others stare at her blankly.

"Is she—" Kei begins.

I groan. "Oh no."

Izzy cups her ear theatrically. "...Sorry, but I totally can't hear you because of this light delay! It's what, 80 minutes? That's a _lot_! I guess I'll have to send you fans a ton of these pre-recorded messages to make up for it! Wooo!" She tilts her head forwards, and raises both arms, and—

I'm just going to say it. She dabs. It's almost charmingly retro.

"I gotta tell you though, it's been _heckin'_ strange so far. There's like, no people here? We've been wandering around for ten minutes and it is _empty,_ which is starting to properly freak me out. It's like everybody was turned into ghosts." Her eyes widen. "Wait, what if our shuttle _did_ blow up? What if _we're_ the ghosts!? Creepy!"

Finn shuffles out of sight with alarming speed as Izzy swings the drone around, giving her fans, or followers, a view of the rest of the room. Marko retreats as well, humming softly. I recognise the tune; one of those identikit pop songs that completely vanishes after playing everywhere for two weeks. Marko's voice makes me like it better, though. His v-neck sweater and fitted grey jeans do cut a decent moody-pop-singer figure.

I scratch distractedly at my hair. _Stop._

"I should totally introduce you to my new friends! Say hi, everyone!" Izzy takes the drone out of the air and points it, selfie-style. "First, this is Kei..."

He grins, slipping an arm around her shoulders like a childhood mate.

"Kei's pretty cool. He's into AFL, as you can tell by the jersey." She points to the blue and yellow '78' emblazoned on his chest. "I personally have no idea about AFL, but it seems to involve sweaty people in short shorts grappling each other, which sounds good to me."

"That is a _great_ description of why I love the sport," Kei replies. "Thanks Izzy, I guess you're pretty cool too."

"You heard it here first!"

They both smile at the drone for a second. Then Kei asks, "So, how many subs do you have?"

She leans closer and whispers a number.

Kei's eyes widen. "Whoa, _how_ many?! Can I, like, refilm that whole section?"

"Nope!" Izzy darts away, searching for Finn, but he hides behind the central vine-encrusted pillar with 'I have no idea what's going on right now' plastered all over him. It's basically a Looney Tunes cartoon in real life but he manages to outlast Izzy's attention span.

So, she turns her attention to me. "Let's go meet Alex! Heeeey, Alex!"

I wave, trying not to make it look like I care.

"Alex here told me a secret," Izzy says, waltzing closer. "She told me she's a writer. And that she writes _fanfiction_."

Oh, shit. "Umm," I say.

Wait, I told _Finn_ I wrote fanfiction. Either he told Izzy, or Izzy's a dirty eavesdropper. One seems more likely than the other (not that I myself would _ever_ listen in on other people's conversations. Haha. Ha.)

"What fandoms are you in?" Izzy asks. "Any ships you like?"

"Umm." Writing stupid wish-fulfilment stories shouldn't be embarrassing, but some of them are old. Or bad. Or perhaps slightly M-rated. Even if they're the _good_ kind of M-rated, I don't necessarily want my face associated with certain sentences I wrote while high on chocolate at 2AM.

"Tell us about one of your stories – which one's your favourite?"

I swallow. "There's a _Night's Dawn_ story that's pretty decent? It's about Commander Kharak, and, um." I swallow again. "Lieutenant Violet."

"Ooooh, nice. Is it, like, sexy fanfiction? Because otherwise what's the point, am I right?"

"I mean... it's more romantic? With character development 'n' stuff?"

"Huh, okay. Well, if it's ' _romantic_ '... I'll link it in the video description for all you sinners out there, you know who you are." She pouts in a way I'd describe as 'scandalous,' twirling away. "Thanks Alex, awesome to meet you!"

No fucking _way_ you're getting that link.

Marko's the last one left alive. He's in his own world, still humming, unaware of Izzy's metamorphosis into a great white shark with a camera. She sneaks the drone above his shoulder and the two-inch sphere hovers silently, capturing a few lines of the song in Marko's oddly tuneful voice.

Then he notices it. Stops. Turns around.

He looks, to put it mildly, slightly pissed. Less pop-singer, more serial-killer.

Izzy grins. " _It's the sound that kick-starts my each and every day... My music, my birdsong, my fireworks display..._ C'mon, sing it with me!"

"No," he says flatly.

"It'll be great!"

"No."

"Please?"

"NO."

"Ten seconds – just ten seconds – and I bet thousands of girls will be crushing _hard_ on you _._ Or boys, whatever. We can even have fun reading their creepy comments together—"

He sighs. "Is that supposed to be a positive?"

"Okay, okay. You're right. Sorry." Izzy grabs the drone and switches it off, unable to conceal a flash of sulkiness. Marko ignores her and walks away, apparently genuinely irritated, which would be a more dramatic gesture if the room wasn't doughnut-shaped. Izzy runs in the other direction and catches him right as he reappears. She's at least a foot shorter, so she has to look up to meet his gaze... and she starts singing the same shitty song, right to his face.

He stares at her, utterly confused.

Izzy isn't a great singer but makes up for it with enthusiasm.

I'm dying.

I'm literally dying of cringe.

I hate what's happening right now.

But Izzy knows _exactly_ what she's doing.

She reaches the chorus.

Her voice wavers.

This is exactly what people mean when they say 'I can't', because I bloody _cannot._

Marko narrows his eyes.

And softly – so softly I almost imagine it – he joins in for the last line.

_"That's what we do, 'cause we're humanity forever..."_

A hint of a smile passes across his lips."That won't always work."

"It did this time, though." Izzy sticks out her tongue. "Pentadact's _so_ good, isn't he?"

"M-hm."

"I mean, forget Commander Kharak, I'd like a toothbrush signed by _him_. Alex, are you still devvo?"

"I'm very devvo." I'll be devastated for the rest of my life, and not just about my toothbrush. _Man_ , those lyrics are terrible.

Kei chooses that moment to literally skip into frame. "Oi, while you guys were having a moment, I found a path to the station hub. I figure that's the most populated area. Wanna go?"

Once again, I'm overruled.

I wonder if this is what having siblings is like. Kei bounces his tennis ball as we walk; I settle for staring at my battered grey shoes _. It's fine. You're fine. You're not doing anything normal people wouldn't do. Just wandering around, looking for help._ I try a few more times to find a way into the mesh network. Still nothing.

This new hallway ends in an industrial airlock, marked by decades-old contamination warnings.

"The plague," Finn says.

"M-hm," Marko agrees. "Once a station gets infected..."

"That was years ago," Izzy says. "Ancient history."

"Doesn't hurt to be careful," I reply.

"Yeah," Kei says. "My sister died from it."

The ball stops.

"Oh, wow," Izzy says. "Sorry."

"It's OK. It's not a big deal."

"Sure?"

"Yeah. As you said, it was years ago."

Seems like a big fucking deal to me. But Kei's tone hasn't changed one iota, and he starts bouncing the ball again. _Thwack, thwack, thwack_ , from the floor to his hand to the floor.

With the environment, and the corporate rebellions, and people injecting animal DNA into their arms and chests and let's face it, their genitals, the last few decades have been rough on planet Earth. Even so, the grey plague might've been worst of all. Plagues were supposed to be _historical._

Turns out they weren't.

Behind the door sprawls a plain-looking cafeteria. Benches and tables form a central aisle, with food and drink dispensers along on either side. According to their advertising displays, each one either turns you into Superman or is the best thing you'll ever taste. Artificial windows display views of Saturn outside, although one's showing a video game paused mid-fight, Spider-Man handing Darth Vader a most glorious arse-kicking. I'm not sure which view I prefer.

Suddenly, Kei says, "Hey, hi!"

And a boyish voice replies: "You lot aren't supposed to be here. Are you?"


	5. Alex

A group of scientists has just entered the cafeteria. (I assume they're scientists because they're wearing lab coats, which seems pretty science-y to me.) The one in front is strangely young. He can't be much older than we are, with broad shoulders and piercing eyes and skin a touch darker than mine. He has a heavy backpack slung over one shoulder, and he looks understandably surprised to see us.

"We're here for the National Youth Science program?" Kei says hopefully. "We were supposed to meet somebody at the dock, but nobody showed up."

The leader exchanges a glance with a woman to his left. She shrugs. She's also carrying a backpack, and I notice her lab coat is ripped in a couple of places.

"Who were you going to meet?" the man asks.

"Uhhh... Alastair Pendant? Do you know him?"

"Yes. If you come with us, we can take you to him."

"Great!" Kei holds out a hand. "I'm Kei."

The man – boy? – pauses, then gives it a firm shake. "Khorin."

The woman with the torn coat gives him another look, but stays quiet. Honestly, I'm just glad to see other human beings. I might pretend to be a loner sometimes, but there's a difference between having your own bubble and being the _only_ bubble.

"We're so glad to see you guys!" Izzy says. "Where is everybody?"

"Occupied," Khorin says.

"Doing what?"

"Safety meeting." His voice is high and husky; he doesn't seem like much of a talker. He sets off into another hallway, in the opposite direction, beckoning for us to follow. Half of the scientists lead the way, while the other half fall in behind us.

"Do you know where we'll be staying?" Izzy asks. "We still need to grab our bags from the shuttle."

"Alastair will handle that," Khorin says.

"And how about Mesh access? Do we need special authorisation?"

"I think so."

"You _think_ so?"

"Been working here a while. Can't remember."

We turn another corner and suddenly I'm two seconds from completely lost. If I was meshed, it wouldn't be a problem; then, I'd also know whether the air was safe to breathe (probably, but best to check), or whether the upcoming door is automatic or manual (who hasn't made that mistake one too many times?), or the names of the people escorting us (because 'young guy' and 'wispy woman' will only get you so far). I ask my MeshMate to label everyone anyway. Hello, Scientists #1 through #8.

"How long have you worked here?" Izzy asks.

"...Five years?"

"Wow, that long?"

"I'm older than I look." Khorin shifts his pack to his other shoulder. From within, there's a metallic _clunk_.

"I would've guessed you were like, 20? Totally a compliment by the way. What do you work on?"

"You ask a lot of questions," Khorin says.

"Haha. Guilty."

"We're almost there. Alastair will take care of you."

"You're lying," Marko says quietly.

Khorin turns. "What?"

"He's lying," Marko says again – to us, this time.

Kei frowns. "What do you mean, he's—"

"I can tell."

Khorin stares at him. The scientists stare at him. We stare at him. _I_ stare at him. And suddenly, Marko's not slouching anymore. He's alert. Behind us, I hear a couple of the scientists whispering to each other – Scientists #4 and #7, a.k.a. wispy woman and torn-coat.

"Huh," I say.

Finn narrows his eyes. "Let's go back to the dock."

Izzy seems _utterly_ confused. "Marko, why—"

A few of the scientists step towards us, slowly. In my periphery, I notice that the scientists behind are spreading out to block the hallway.

That's not good. Right? Why would—

Marko bolts. He spins on the spot and _runs,_ twisting past the outstretched arms of Scientist #4 and sprinting down the passage. I freeze. I'm frozen. Then Khorin is suddenly very big and very close and he's grabbing Kei, who tries to step away, but he's got Kei's arms and twists them and Kei's crying out and Finn's stumbling back looking goddamn terrified and Izzy's hands go up in self-preservation as she yells at everyone and no one. "Marko? Marko! Hey, what the _shit_ is going on? Who are you guys?"

My mouth drops open. That's my contribution.

Until I see Khorin's eyes, which are... empty. They're not filled with denial, or surprise, or rage, or confusion. They're _empty_.

Maybe Marko's right.

I'm dunked by a bucket of icy adrenaline and I'm suddenly hot, cold, shivering, sweating, so many totally irrelevant questions sprouting through me like who these people are and why they're on the station and how Marko knows and why Kei's screaming. I'm running, or I want to be but in either direction our path is blocked: a thin grey hallway, ceiling low enough to touch, the four of us pincered between eight other figures. The wispy woman locks eyes with me. She moves a hand to her waist, takes a stubby black object from her belt.

< _Alert! Gun! >_ my MeshMate says.

 _Holy fuckballs!_ adds my brain, helpfully.

Then, a spark of inspiration nearly knocks me flat. I hate myself for it. I love myself for it. "Izzy!" I shout. "Season two, episode nine!"

She stops yelling for a second. "What?"

"Season two, episode-fuckin'-nine! Lieutenant Violet! Now!"

Wispy-woman's drawn the gun. It's a gun. I can see straight down the barrel, and oh god, she'd better not shoot me – she won't, right? – what –

Izzy's drone beeps. A text zips across my vision – 'CLOSE YOUR EYES' – and as I do the drone emits a painful whine that builds and instantly crescendos and—

_Snap!_

Light turns my eyelids red, heat on my cheeks, shouts, muffled swearing, a bone-splitting shriek of pain from Scientist #7.

My eyes open.

Our attackers are bent double, hands over faces. Wispy-woman is full-on crying. Kei kicks, scratches, wriggles free from Khorin, nearly falling. The drone glows red-hot.

"Let's _run_!" Izzy screeches.

She's first, then Finn, then Kei, then me. We sprint down the corridor in Marko's general direction. I still don't want to believe what just happened, even though it _did_ , even though my MeshMate could play it back, sounds, smells and all. I run, because everyone's running, and what else can we do? The station's spin is catching up, taking hold, and the same spin that gives me gravity is forcing my world to twist and turn, and no matter how fast I am I can never beat it. _Everything's_ spinning, the station around Saturn, Saturn around the Sun, the Sun around our galaxy and I'm caught in the middle and it's freaking _dizzying_ and I really, really want to throw up.

I'm too busy breathing to throw up.

This can't be happening.

It's a misunderstanding.

I want to explain. I want to be explained to.

I look over my shoulder and see distant figures chasing us around the station's curve. I think it's the wispy woman.

I want to stop.

When I do, there's a blaze of light.

Heat splashes against my back. For a second my skin feels warm, and then it _burns,_ my jumper blackening and splitting. I fall. I've been stabbed. My mind stops spinning and starts screaming instead. There are two, three, five, awful seconds before painkilling healthbots rush to the wound. I can't touch it. I'm on the floor. There's only the flesh between my shoulders, sizzling, dripping—

It goes numb.

Izzy and Finn are pulling me, dragging me forwards.

"Alex! Alex, are you OK?" Izzy says.

I croak a reply. Yes, no, doesn't matter.

"Holy shit, they shot her! Dude, they shot her!" Kei shouts.

Apparently we're past the point of explanations. Marko and Kei are ten metres ahead, and behind... I decide not to look behind us. My MeshMate must be dosing me to hell because otherwise I'd be catatonic. They _blasted_ me with a thermal gun – me, a sixteen-year-old farm girl. Might as well club a seal while you're at it.

We dash round a corner and we're back in the cafeteria. We dodge between tables, skidding, stumbling. I hear voices behind us. Angry voices. Close. I wonder why they haven't caught us yet, but of course, they're carrying those heavy packs. Here we go, into the next corridor, the lights dim and flickering. Any second I expect another fiery burst on my skin.

Instead, we burst into the sanity room.

There are six exits. The birds are singing.

"Which way?" Marko asks.

Izzy makes the decision for us and dives into the corridor leading back to the docking bay. We corkscrew downward, descending into the underworld at full sprint. It's dizzying enough _without_ all the painkillers in me.

"Maybe they won't – know which way – we went," Kei pants.

"They _know_ we – they know we came from the dock," Finn says worriedly. "I—"

Suddenly, Izzy stops in front of the office we searched. "In here! They'll miss us if we hide!"

There are at least ten things wrong with this idea, but right now, that makes it one of the better ones. We pile into the office, rushing to the far end where it forms an 'L' shape. Izzy plugs her drone into the door panel, spending ten precious seconds fiddling with the datalink before – _whoosh!_ – the door slides shut. She sprints to us and slides round the corner, nearly slamming face-first into Kei. We duck out of sight.

"It'll stay locked," Izzy whispers. "I overrode the security."

"It better, because there aren't any other exits," Marko says, eyes white in the gloom.

"You overrode _what_?" I ask.

"The security. Wait, you just got shot. You're OK, right? You'd better be OK!" Izzy's eyes tell me that, yes, I'd better be OK, otherwise _she_ won't be OK and we can't have that.

"I'm fine. I mean, I'm totally bloody _not_ fine, but it actually doesn't hurt that much. For now."

"They must've wanted to stun us," Marko says. "Not kill us."

"Oh, how lovely, they _only_ wanted to STUN US do you realise you insane th—"

"Shhh!" Kei hisses. "They're coming."

We crouch behind a desk, submerged in shadows of fear and anticipation. The holo-screen on the wall throws red and blue stripes across the room. Finn's closest to me. I can smell his sweat, jaw's clenched, but otherwise he seems calm. Izzy, on the other hand, looks fucking _alive_ , vibrating with suppressed energy. Marko's an origami version of himself, knees against his chest, folded up. I shiver. That's about how I feel, too.

Eventually, Kei crawls forward and sticks his head around the corner.

We wait. We listen.

I don't want to be here.

_I don't._

It'd be bad enough without these crazy dudes chasing us. I don't know where things are here, or how they work, and on top of that we're more alone and isolated than most other humans in history. My breath quickens. Sure, if I was home, I'd probably be... sitting beneath the gum tree that leans across our house, sipping a cold Milo and wasting my life, but that useless image is so incredibly distant it's basically incomprehensible. It's just noise. Static. Whatever.

We're stuck here, with people who want to—

 _Kill you?_ my brain suggests.

That can't be right. But where's the rest of the station's population? Something must've happened to them, something bad. I can't get enough air down my throat no matter how much I try; my vision swims and I lean against the wall and try not to let the others see my face.

This is crazy. I shouldn't have come here.

 _But you_ can't _go home_ , my brain says, and I shiver and shiver until I'm about to fly apart.

Eventually, Kei comes crawling back. He swallows. "I didn't see them," he whispers. "I don't think they came this way. We... we should run to the shuttle."

Izzy shakes her head. "The shuttle is a _hell_ obvious target."

"What else is there? If we stick around, they're gonna find us – in minutes, hours, days, however long it takes them. We've got no food, no water, no... anything! And I really need a piss!"

"Just had to bring that up," Izzy groans.

"If we can take the shuttle and leave, we'll be safe. We can call for help, talk to another station."

"So there _are_ stations nearby?" I ask.

"Three permanent bases around Saturn," Finn says.

"OK, then I vote shuttle."

Izzy glares at me. "You wanna get shot again?"

"No, but—"

"If they're waiting for us, that's how we _all_ get shot."

"They might not be waiting," I say.

"But what if they _are_? Have you ever been shot at before?"

"Not until now, no!"

"No frickin' way," Kei says.

"Sort of," Marko murmurs.

We glance at him.

"I just don't want to take any chances," Izzy mutters.

"Neither do I," Kei replies, "but if we're fast, we can make it to the dock before they think to look. It's two minutes away. We're wasting time!"

"Dude, they freaking _shot_ at us."

"Yes! I _know_! I was _there_!"

"What are our options?" I ask. "Other than sitting around panicking."

"I'm not panicking," Izzy retorts.

"Kinda feels like we should be," Kei snaps. His voice cracks.

My notebook's heavy in my pocket. I wish I had a pithy thought that encapsulated this insanity. Instead I try to control my breathing, to focus on their words instead of the words inside my head. _Breath in. Breathe out. In. Out._ We do need to leave – that much is obvious. We can't stay here, but we also can't get caught. There must be another path, one we're not thinking of.

"Marko, any ideas?" Izzy asks.

He shakes his head, staring at the floor.

"Great. Thanks. Super helpful."

"Give him a break, Izzy," Kei says.

"I just— ugh. Sorry. This whole situation is making me crazy. I can't... I can't actually believe any of it."

"That's because it _is_ crazy. It's insane. It's fucking bonkers."

It is indeed pretty fucking bonkers. I feel a twinge in my shoulder as the painkillers start to fade. I resist the urge to touch whatever's back there. _Probably just some cooked flesh._ What if I'd just gotten on a different shuttle – perhaps hopped onto a Martian ferry instead? Mars is nice. Why couldn't they run this camp on Mars?

"What if," I say, "we find a different shuttle?"

"Huh?" Kei blinks.

"There are lots of docking bays. We can go a different one."

"Where, though?" Izzy asks. "We don't have a map."

"I don't know," I say.

"And how are we going to steal a shuttle?"

"I don't know."

"And—"

Marko looks up. "I'll handle the shuttle."

"Uhh... really?"

"Yeah."

Then Izzy thinks for a second, instead of dismissing everything I say. "Wait. The docking bays are connected, right? There's at least three of them, in a big ring. I remember seeing them from the shuttle. If we go back..."

I nod. "...yeah, I bet there are connections to the other docks."

"Okay," Kei says. "I'm happy with that. We happy with that?"

More nods, even though nobody's remotely happy.

"Then let's get the fuck outta here."

Izzy unlocks the door, and we move.

The first left-hand turn we take leads us to a wider tunnel, with thick pipes snaking along the walls and red lane markings for autonomous cargo carriers. The floor curves with the arc of the station; I keep seeing glimpses of movement just out of sight. An endless distance later – probably a couple hundred metres – we come to a thick, ominous portal labelled 'Airlock B-C'.

Through it is a large, hexagonal chamber, a salt shaker for giants. It sits between Docks B and C like a buffer – if the docks are links in a kilometre-long bracelet, this is the silver charm dangling between them. Half the floor is an open cargo elevator; in the ceiling is a strip of window looking towards Starfish's central hub. I can't see much through it, but what's there looks dark and uninhabited and... old, to be honest.

The chamber's empty.

To the right: an airlock to Docking Bay B. To the left: an airlock to Docking Bay C, big enough to drive a dump truck through. Eight or ten fist-sized pale blue spheres stitch a line between the doors – they're half-transparent and stuck solidly to the floor. I'm tempted to poke one before my Australian survival instincts kick in. _Don't touch, because it's probably poisonous and wants to kill you._

"So we go through," Izzy whispers. "Find a ship. Then what?"

"Then Marko flies us out of here. Right?" I say.

"Theoretically," he replies.

My eyes narrow. "Theoretically?"

"Depends what type of ship it is."

"But you _do_ know how to fly? Or am I tragically underestimating our chances?"

"I can do small ships – I tried to get a racing licence." He purses his lips. "Big ships, not so much."

"When you say you 'tried' to get a racing licence..."

He flashes me a funeral smile.

"It'll be a small ship," Kei says. "Promise. Let's do it, before I have second thoughts." He slaps Marko's back. 

Finn's pretty sure ('like, ninty percent sure?') we landed in 'B', so we walk to the 'C' airlock and form up on either side. I take a quick breath. Kei does. Everyone does. He flicks a switch and the doors start sliding apart, a crack at first, then wider. They're so bulky that the process takes whole seconds, polymer plates rasping and creaking, a motor somewhere whining about friction. The commotion must be audible within a fifty-metre radius.

Which is bad.

Oh gosh, it's very bad.

Docking Bay C looks a lot like Docking Bay B, except there _are_ people here. Lots of people. At least forty are kneeling on the floor, hands behind their heads: men, women, young and old, some in work clothes, several in high-vis PPE, a few families that look like they've just been woken from sleep. Some are crying. Some are angry. Most are scared. All are trapped.

Surrounding the crowd are a dozen individuals wielding snub-nosed rifles. They wear dark grey vacsuits with full-face reflective visors, except for one – a severe-looking woman with folded arms. She's surveying the kneeling civilians, murmuring orders to the guards. For now, their rifles are pointed at the ground, the hostages intimidated into silence.

This means our airlock is the loudest noise in the universe.

The civilians turn towards us.

Their guards turn towards us.

"Shit," Izzy says.

We spin on the spot.

We've barely run a couple of metres in the other direction when the first plasma bolt slices over my shoulder.

I hear screams. I run faster.

We dash across the chamber, the airlock still grinding open, plasma fire zipping above our heads. A stray bolt scars the floor, crackling with energy. Kei slams into the wall by Airlock B and it starts to open too, slowly, so slowly, and I look over my shoulder and see a couple of guards with guns raised and behind them the huddled hostages and behind _them_ the broken promise of escape. Izzy squeezes through the gap, then Marko, then Finn, then me, Kei coming last, reflexively shielding his head as though that'll stop a laser and together we sprint onto the familiar concourse of Docking Bay B. My chest hurts.

 _The shuttle_ , I think. _We can get to our old shuttle._

We sprint past dangling ferns, through the rows of seats. I look back again. Kei's a half-second behind.

We're not going to make it.

We will.

We won't—

A blue streak punches through Kei's left shoulder. There's a spray of red that turns my heart to ice, then a violent hiss as the wound instantly cauterises.

Kei twists. Falls.

I... keep going.

I run, stumbling after the others. My legs don't want to stop.

_You should help him._

I don't.

_You should help._

I can't.

"Cease fire!" a voice barks.

It's the woman. She's standing at the airlock, fifty metres back. So suddenly that I almost scream, my MeshMate stumbles across a datastream and tells me her name.

It's Maritime.

Suddenly, the ground shakes – it kicks and bucks like an earthquake. I'm on my knees. I'm on the floor. Through it comes a bone-jarring rumble, a teeth-rattling avalanche. Explosion? From where I'm lying I can see Kei. He's on his back, not moving. Unconscious. A streak of blood runs down his arm, slashing through 'Wel ome to Starf sh Statio !' on the ground.

That definitely wasn't a stun shot.

The vibrations dampen.

They fade.

I think I'm crying.

Maritime steps forward. "Help him," she says.

Two guards break away. I'm not sure how they _can_ help, but... they kneel beside Kei and lift him up.

Maritime turns. If she's statuesque, it's the statue of a vengeful goddess: her face is harsh, cast from bronze, with strong brows and high cheekbones and the jaw of an angry thundercloud. She's tall – taller than Marko – and stands with scientific precision, hands clasped behind her back, head angled slightly towards us. The vacsuit she wears is streaked with use, light grey scratches criss-crossing the dark grey material.

I get to my feet. More of those blue spheres are scattered across the dock, a breadcrumb trail leading across the floor, then up the wall and across the ceiling and back down the wall again, forming a rectangle, like a window between us and our attackers.

"Come with me," Maritime says, "and everything will be alright."

"I don't think so," Izzy replies, with admirable fury.

"This isn't up for debate, Miss Tran."

Izzy's glare hits like a jackhammer. "Tell us what you're doing."

"I'm doing you a favour. I'm doing everyone a favour."

"You shot our friend!"

I raise my hand a little. "And me."

"...And Alex!"

"I apologise," Maritime says. "That was... pre-emptive. We're escorting all personnel off the station. Right now." The cords in her neck are like suspension bridge cables.

A pause.

"You want to take us _off_ the station?" Marko asks.

"Yes, for your safety. It's important that no one is within the potential— where'd you get that?"

Maritime's gaze shifts back to Izzy, a sniper's sightline across no man's land. Izzy's holding something small and black – not her drone, but a datapad. In the distance, Kei groans, his voice slurred with pain.

"What?" Izzy asks. She holds up the pad. "This?"

"Yes, _that_."

"It was lying here. On one of the chairs."

Maritime whirls around. "Did anybody leave a remote behind? Are you _that_ incompetent?"

One of the guards steps back. "I don't think—"

"Put it down," Maritime barks. "Isabelle, it's very important that you put it down."

"I think I'll hold onto it," Izzy says.

Maritime's eyes flick from Izzy, to the datapad, to the trail of blue spheres that cuts the dock in half and I suddenly have an awful premonition.

"Izzy," I whisper, out of the corner of my mouth. "I think we should do what she says."

" _I_ think this is our best chance of getting out of here," she replies.

I step towards her. It's already too late.

There's a blinking red button on the front of the datapad.

Izzy shrugs. Presses it.

Maritime crumbles: "Don't!"

Four beams of piercing blue light erupt from each sphere. They spin and slice through the station's polymer like buzzsaws, leaving enormous red-hot gashes in their wake – gashes that line up between adjacent spheres, perforating the dock, splitting it completely in two. It's like someone sliced the room in half with the world's biggest, sharpest broadsword.

The beams disappear. For a moment, there's nothing but the sizzle of melted material.

From the other side of the cut, Maritime stares at us in shock.

Izzy freezes.

My heart thumps against my ribs.

Then the spheres explode. _Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop_ , one after the other, the whole set in an eyeblink.

I'm thrown backwards.

As I fly, I hear a high-pitched whistle: a whistle that becomes a song, then a shriek, then a roar.

I hit the ground. Something cracks beneath me. Bone, probably. A wind snatches at my hair, my clothes, and the roar becomes a hurricane of escaping air that makes it hard to breathe. I look up. For a moment, I can't make sense of it – the other half of the dock looks curiously smaller, more distant, like a black-edged diorama framed by a thirty-degree tilt. Then I realise – the frame's empty space. The two halves of the chamber are flying apart and there's _literal open fucking space_ between them. Air is rushing out, so fast it makes my ears pop, dragging and ripping me towards the void with the strongest arms I've ever felt but I reach out and hook my elbow around a bench and scream and hang on. Boxes and pipes and bedraggled ferns tumble over my head. One bounces off the jagged edge of the split, exploding in a cloud of dirt. The lights are still on but they're red, dark red, and I think I can hear an alarm but it's muffled and there's probably no air left for the sound to carry through.

I look behind me. The gap is wider and I can see other parts of the station past the edge – a habitation ring glinting in the sunlight, joining to the closest arm, now with a huge hole in its side. It looks... unreal, the colours too muted, the details too sharp. On the other side of the gap I spot Maritime and her guards, safe in their vacsuits, dragging themselves towards the airlock. My eyes hurt. My skin hurts. Everything hurts.

And then, I see Kei.

He's out in the void, limp, tumbling, a splotch of colour against an eternity of nothing.

He's too far away.

His eyes are closed.

I'm pretty sure... I'm pretty sure I see him die.

I feel myself losing consciousness, losing my grip on everything.

Then the station twists and leaps and punches me in the face.

And that's it.


	6. Finn

You know those times when you go to summer camp, except the camp's on Saturn, and when you arrive the camp's attacked by terrorists, and then the bit of the camp you're standing on explodes?

Pretty sure this is one of those times.

Technically the camp's not _on_ Saturn, since Saturn doesn't have a surface. And technically, it's not a summer camp, because seasons don't really exist anymore, thanks to climate change. And the people who shot at us probably aren't terrorists, but... I can't think of what else to call them. Ever since arriving, in the back of my mind, I've wondered if this is a strangely-detailed dream. Perhaps I'm safely asleep on the shuttle. Perhaps I'm at home, on Earth, and my unconscious has invented this entire misguided venture. A nightmare definitely sounds more logical. Why else would I revisit the worst few weeks of my otherwise short, uneventful life?

I'm probably not dreaming, though.

Things hurt too much.

I swim towards consciousness through a dead sea of pain. My MeshMate is telling me stuff, lots of stuff, lines upon lines of amber text – useful information which, in the moment, is incredibly useless.

 _Stop, Ferdinand_. _I'm awake._

My MeshMate chirps.

You know that feeling when your eyes are so tired you can't properly focus? This is like that but applied to every fibre of me – my sluggish thoughts, the aching pain, the disquieting lack of floor under my feet. Déjà vu hits me like a ton of wet rice.

My name is Finn.

I'm sixteen years old.

My tegu, Ferdinand, died last month.

My mother's maiden name is... uh-oh. Can't remember.

On the count of three, I'm going to open my eyes.

One.

Two.

Three.

I turn my head, the pain spikes, and I'm... floating. I'm floating in the half of the docking bay that still exists, staring at... I don't know what I'm staring it. I try to flip over but I can't and my brain suddenly shrieks—

—you're falling, you're upside-down, YOU'RE FALLING—

My arms and legs flail for balance, for something to hold on to.

I flounder uselessly, suspended mid-air, gasping against the urge to throw up. It takes a while to convince myself that I'm okay.

Gravity's gone. Good to know.

Still not dead. Good to know.

First task: get to a solid surface.

I curl up, reach down, tug off one of my shoes. I glance around, then hurl it at the floor above me.

Slowly, I start drifting in the opposite direction.

Very.

Very.

Slowly.

Even though I'm mostly bones, I'm a heck of a lot more massive than a dusty old running shoe. I take my other shoe and throw it, too. It hits the floor and bounces away, spiralling into the darkness.

Thanks, physics.

Minutes later, I'm within arm's reach of a bracket on the ceiling. I grab it, swing myself to a stop, take a few deep breaths. _It's only zero-g. You can handle zero-g. You aren't going to fall._

Second task: survey the area.

I'm definitely in the docking bay, although it's mostly dark. The lighting's a feeble emergency red, either dying or dead already. Something's still on fire at the far end of the concourse, a smattering of distant flames throwing long, flickering shadows. Without gravity, flames don't rise; they balloon, in undulating orange spheres. Thick balls of smoke hover nearby.

The last thing I remember is the dock being sliced in half. So why am I alive?

Where I expect to see a giant hole in the station, there's an entirely new wall. It curves up and around, adhering to the jagged edges of explosion-damaged polymer, effectively sealing the chamber with a clean, white membrane. In the gloom I notice hints of movement: frisbee-sized repair bots tending to the polymer regrowth. Pairs of them scan the surface for irregularities, dispensing extra material where needed. It must've been only a minute or two from the explosion to the first repairs.

How long have I been unconscious?

< _Half an hour >,_ Ferdinand chirps.

Enough time to fill the room with oxygen and reheat it to habitable levels. Understandable that I feel like crap, though. Vacuum exposure will do that to you. I give Ferdinand a quick scratch under his chin and he scuttles up my leg, perching on my shoulder.

< _Healbot supplies at twenty percent. Please find a medical dispenser immediately._ >

"Yeah, yeah."

My voice cracks.

I need water.

Nearly everything that wasn't bolted down has been sucked out of the dock.

Everything except the bodies.

I spot one. Then two. Then three. They're curled up. Unmoving.

"Hey," I call out.

I don't like the bodies, not when it's dark. I turn to face the ceiling, inches from my face, my legs dangling in the cold, thin air.

Third task: don't panic.

That one might be difficult.

One of my eyes is scabbed over. I touch the area around it. It's itchy. My fingers come away red with blood, half-way to clotting – a parting gift from one of those ferns on its one-way trip to oblivion.

Okay.

Bodies.

The closest is near the floor, which is currently above me. I ask Ferdinand to identify it.

The lizard sniffs.

< _Alex Sakkari, 92% probability._ >

Alex. Okay, it's Alex.

Truthfully, I'm a little scared of her.

I should check if she's okay.

I leap towards her, on legs made of custard. I soar across the docking bay, stomach churning, half-tempted to close my eyes but instead I stare at the place I'm going to hit, and stare and stare and keep on staring until—

"Oof." I slam into a bench and I claw at it desperately, to avoid bouncing off like a human pinball.

Delicate movements, Finn.

Use delicate movements.

Awkwardly, I manoeuvre into the gap beneath the bench. Alex is there, face-down, one elbow hooked around a chair-leg.

"Hello?" I ask.

She doesn't respond.

The only sound is the whirr of the repair-bots. The station's systems aren't operating at capacity, if at all. My breathing is almost oppressive.

I lean closer.

Her skin's bruised and raw from the rapid decompression but I'm fairly certain she's alive. That's probably the best I can hope for, at this point. Her hair floats in a ghostly fan around her harsh, tanned face. I reach out reflexively to touch her shoulder, to wake her, but... I stop.

She'll wake up.

My MeshMate tells me the other bodies are probably Marko and Izzy. It's hard to be sure, in the dark. No Kei, though.

No Kei.

You know, he was the first person to ask if I was OK, when we woke on the shuttle. We were both still dizzy from stasis sickness but I think he told me a joke. It was funny. Or it wasn't, but I remember laughing. Kei was... nice.

'Oh, he was nice.' What an inadequate way to describe somebody.

He's probably dead.

Floating, out there.

Dead.

You should stop thinking about this.

I scoot over to the new polymer seals, so I can watch the repair bots work. I wipe the blood from my face, and my hair, and it perhaps wasn't a good idea to use my t-shirt since it's now a red-stained rag. Collecting my shoes takes a bit more effort; they seem to have flown in completely opposite directions. Eventually, the repair bots move to extinguish the remaining fires, and within seconds the flames are gone. The docking bay gets darker. My brain keeps telling me there are more bodies in the shadows – perhaps one wearing a yellow-blue AFL jersey – but it's always a trick of the light, or lack of it. I'm the first one awake at a sixth-grade sleepover, anxiously counting down the seconds until the world restarts.

I was expecting lots of things to happen on this trip.

Some good. Some bad. But not... this.

Who _were_ those people who attacked us? I can think of plenty of options –pirates, soldiers, terrorists, corporate spies, downtrodden employees _extremely_ keen for a raise – but none of them are good ones. Why were they forcing people off Starfish?

I don't know.

I'm thinking, and I'm thinking, but I don't _know_.

I suppose I'm scared.

Fourth task: still don't panic.

I should be doing things. Making plans. Getting supplies, getting a vacsuit, getting to a medbay, signalling for help.

It all seems vaguely pointless.

So, I wait.

I wait until one of the floating bodies stirs.

"Marko?" I call out.

"Eeeeuuughhh," is his reply.

I launch myself towards him, realise I can't stop without grabbing his legs, and sail right past to the opposite wall. "Are you okay?" (Stupid question.)

"I'm... alive," he says, looking around.

He takes in the scene. I wait.

" _How_ am I alive?"

"Um. The repair bots saved us, I think. They got a seal on heaps quickly. We're lucky. Sort of."

"Huh." He coughs a couple of times, and bangs his elbow on a column. "I could use a little help here."

I launch towards him again, more slowly. As I pass, he seizes my outstretched forearm. We barely manage to navigate the resulting brain-bending back-pedalling tumble, but find ourselves clinging to the bench next to Alex. Marko hisses, biting back pain.

"What's wrong?"

"Shoulder," he grunts.

"It's probably dislocated," Alex mumbles.

I choke back a yell. "Aah! You're—"

"Yep, I'm awake." She extracts herself from her hiding spot, rubbing her eyes groggily. "Fuuuuuuccckk me. We aren't dead?"

"E-seal." Marko nods at the smooth white membrane.

"Wow, would you look at that. Man, I feel like I've been churned through a trash compactor. Where's Izzy? And Kei?"

"Izzy's sleeping," I say. Suddenly, a lump's in my throat, gluing it shut. "Kei... I haven't seen him."

She glances at me. Closes her eyes. "Shit. Shit, shit, _shit._ "

"What is it?" Marko asks softly.

"I think... I think I saw..." She trails off. "Let me look at your shoulder."

"What?"

"Let me see your shoulder – the one that hurts."

With his good arm, Marko pulls the neck of his t-shirt aside, exposing the joint.

Oh boy. _Oh boy._ There's a weird, spherical nodule where his arm and shoulder meet, pushing against the skin from underneath, and the logical conclusion is that it's the end of his arm bone – which is supposed to be socketed into his shoulder – which makes me want to vomit far more than any lack of gravity. A black bruise is spreading across his skin.

"Yep, that looks pretty dislocated," Alex says. She examines at it closely, though I don't know how.

Marko grits his teeth. Like me, he's trying not to look. "Oh. Good."

"Want me to push it back in for you?"

"Umm. I'm fine—"

"I'll push it back in. Finn, hold him down."

I blink. "What?"

"Hold him down!"

There's no disobeying that tone, so I swing myself over and grab Marko's other shoulder, pushing him firmly against the bench. His eyes meet mine and suddenly I'm blushing like a schoolgirl. It's my body's way of telling me it wants to be far, far away **.**

Marko smiles grimly, staring at nothing. "This is fun," he says.

"Uh, sure," I say stupidly. "Ever been to Disneyland?"

"Nope."

"That's more fun."

"On three," Alex says. She grips his arm and angles it flat, ninety degrees to his body. Then, slowly, she starts pulling. I struggle to keep Marko in place. "One, tw—"

**Clunk!**

"OW!"

"Better?" Alex asks.

I try to erase the sound of clicking bones from my brain. Marko moves his arm up and down experimentally, then swings it around a few times.

"Hurts... less," he murmurs. "Uh. Thank you?"

"You're welcome – just give it a few weeks before you try lifting any cars." She grins in a rather self-satisfied way. "You end up learning heaps of random shit, living on a farm with only magpies to talk to. How to jump-start a hovertruck, how to fire a shotgun, how to avoid being devoured by snakes, how to prepare my dad's _extremely specific_ Vegemite toast recipe..."

Marko frowns, stretching cautiously. "Actually, how are you doing? I never saw what they shot you with."

"'Cause you were too busy saving you own arse?"

"I... ah. That's not—"

"You totally bolted, dude. Left us hanging."

"Okay, but you understand why, right?" His eyes are sorrier than an orphaned Labrador's. Gosh, it's like a entire boxful of abandoned puppies. "I panicked, and there wasn't time to think of... doing anything else."

Alex's eyes are more like a suspicious German Shepherd, one that runs around helping detectives solve crimes.

"Well," she says, with the judgemental capacity of a courtroom. "My back, for your information, is roughly medium rare. It'd go down incredible with some barbecue sauce and it stings like the fucking blazes but my MeshMate's out of painkillers. I'm getting Izzy."

"She's sleeping," I say.

"So?"

Alex stands up, somehow hooks her sleeve on the bench-rail and suddenly she's tumbling head-over-heels to nowhere. "Ah shit I _hate_ zero-g! I hate it! I— oooooohhhhh. No. No no no no no—"

Sixty seconds and half a cup of vomit later, we're gathered around Izzy's supine form. She's cradled by one of the biometric scan gates, spreadeagled against a panel. A flickering, fuzzy ' _unidentified object in the scanning area'_ is splashed on the nearest wall; it looks strangely like an ancient cave panting, a forest of sabre-tooth letters.

Alex raises her hand.

She slaps Izzy, hard.

Her eyes snap open. "Grandma?!" She blinks, bewildered, then locks onto Alex. Her stare becomes a glare. " _You_."

"Wake up, sleepyhead! Clock's ticking."

"Huh? Where..." Izzy coughs. I think I see a few droplets of blood. "Oh, _god_."

"Right? All that shit you're remembering, wondering 'hey, was that a dream?' It happened."

"Everything?"

"M-hm."

"Even the part with use wearing luchador masks and wrestling?"

Alex pales. "Wrestling who?"

"Each other, _obviously_." Izzy gazes at each of us in turn, lips moving silently. When she speaks, her voice is the quietest I've ever heard it. "Where's Kei?"

My heart stops. It stops, and a dizzying shiver runs through me.

This does feel like a dream.

"He... didn't make it," Alex replies. "I saw him after the explosion. He was thrown off structure, into the vacuum." She gestures vaguely. "He was pretty far out there."

Marko stares at his feet. "Too far?"

"Yeah." She shrugs. "Or maybe not, maybe somebody saved him."

"One of the bad guys?"

"I don't believe it," Izzy says. "I don't."

I'm not sure which part – the dying, or the being saved.

I focus on everything that isn't moving.

The people who're left.

Our clothes are ripped and torn and blackened. Someone's taken a jar of scratches, bruises, sprinkled it all over us. We're dripping with exhaustion and confusion and traces of whatever used to live in Alex's stomach, plus the echoes of whatever's left when you don't have enough in you to be sad.

Logically, I shouldn't care overly much. People die. I don't know most of them, and I didn't really know Kei.

Other people did, though.

Maybe I could've been one of them.

I should stop thinking about this.

"We'll find him," Marko says, and for a moment I almost believe him.

* * *

Izzy's only zero-g experience comes from arcades and simulations, but she adapts pretty quickly, avoiding the usual introductory vomit period thanks to her sheer pissed-off-ness. Alex has appointed herself as guardian-slash-teacher and they float together ahead of Marko and I, skimming along the wall, towards the airlock where our shuttle was docked.

Key word: was.

Vibrations from the explosions must've ripped it clean off its moorings. Resupply hoses claw at empty space, waving in non-existent wind.

The airlock is still pressurised, so we decide to hunker down inside. Marko floats freely, arms folded, while Izzy presses as much of herself as possible against the floor with two-minutes-till-the-exam's-over kind of eyes.

"So a plan...?" Izzy says. Half-question, half-prayer.

Alex pulls out her notebook. "Let's make a list: things to do. Or _not_ do."

I run my fingers through my hair, sweeping it aside (a good amount of blood has now gone into styling it). Lists are good, though. Lists give you tangible goals while the rest of the galaxy is going supernova. Alex's vintage paper obsession is a little weird but, as her pen begins _scritching_ and _scratching_ , a strange calm settles over me. We should be freaking out. I don't, as a rule, but if there's ever a time, it's now.

Maybe our adrenaline tanks are empty.

Maybe it's the feeling, however justified, that the worst has already happened and if we're alive we have a good chance of making it. If we can survive the next few hours, we'll soon be on the next shuttle home and I can walk through the door of my mum's apartment in the arcology with raindrops snaking down the windows and pretend I _never_ thought this was a good idea.

The most noticeable sign of worry is a slight shake in Alex's fingers.

The pen spins away from her. She retrieves it, biting her lip.

"Priorities," Izzy says. "We need priorities. Starting from the most important."

"Don't die," Alex suggests.

"Aren't we doing that, like, by default?"

"Uh. No?"

"Alright. Alright." Izzy shakes her head. " _Four_ of us are, and let's look on the bright side—"

"Oh, the _bright_ side?"

"—whatever, the side that's marginally less shitty! Because the shuttle isn't here, which means our stuff is MIA, and we'll eventually need food, and water, and medical supplies, and I could really use a change of clothes and a new pair of shoes, which is dumb, but I'm _not_ gonna be the girl who always gets eaten by a monster because she can't properly run in high heels!"

"You can float in high heels, though."

Izzy gives her a Look.

"Sorry," Alex says. "Ignore me. Keep going."

"Look, I'm _trying_ to help. For food, we could go to that cafeteria we passed earlier... but we'll definitely need money. Does Earth money still work out here? Anyone know? We'll also need to look at finding another ship or calling for help somehow and maybe getting mesh access, and I wonder if there's a way to check life support status for other parts of the station, or how the whole system is doing, because there might still be other people with guns we have to watch out for— do you think there are other people here? Maybe nobody else survived, although we don't know how much damage there to the rest of the station... which is why we should try and check—"

"Izzy!" Alex raises her hand. "Slow down."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." She takes a breath. "What's first, then? Should we look for rations?"

"Well, we aren't going to starve in the next couple of hours. And food and water shouldn't be _that_ hard to find. I reckon we'll initially need medical supplies, and vacsuits in case of another breach. The repair bots have kept us alive so far, god bless 'em, but that could change. Quickly."

Marko nods. "The last station I was on had emergency lockers at major transit junctions. We should keep an eye out."

"Couldn't we like, go _outside_ with vacsuits?" Izzy asks. "Instead of worrying about running into... hijackers? Bad dudes? Whatever? We could climb outside, jet to the nearest working ship—"

"No," Alex says.

"We wouldn't even have to—"

"Izzy, no. We'll end up like Kei."

"But it would be so much easier!"

"If you're that keen on following him, why bother with a suit? Just... go jump out an airlock."

"That isn't what I meant," Izzy says quietly. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Then _stop_ thinking about it."

She smiles sweetly. "Just trying to help."

"I know, I know, I'm... sorry. Ugh. The first thing you're _not_ supposed to do is go off-structure, but I guess not everyone chooses that class at school, huh?"

Alex laughs awkwardly. Izzy's smile doesn't waver.

It's true that our biggest priority is staying safe, and emergency supplies will go a long way towards that. We should assume nobody else knows what's happened here, and aim to find a comms relay to contact nearby outposts. Of Saturn's moons, I know there's a few thousand people on Titan and a few hundred on Encedalus, and there'll be at least a dozen ships within a hundred million klicks. After that, we can attempt to find transport. I suppose I trust Marko when he says he can pilot us out of here, and stations _are_ supposed to maintain a full complement of escape pods. Still, when I think back to our view of Starfish as we approached, our shuttle was one of only three visible ships. What was it Maritime said? ' _We're taking everybody off the station.'_ Makes sense, then, that the pods might be gone – if she was telling the truth.

Information's another big problem. For now, the dock seems safe, but once we're moving we'll have no idea whether the next compartment is full of open space, or boiling plasma, or a posse of creepy thugs pretending to be scientists. We'll need a way to access the station's monitoring systems—

"Hey, Finn," Alex says. "Anything to add?"

I freeze. "Not really."

"Looks like you're thinkin' pretty hard."

"I mean... I agree with what you guys are saying."

"Okay. Sure." She gives me a wary look.

Honestly, it's not like I don't want to contribute, but... I find it difficult, especially with people I don't know. I'm the type of person who works on ideas independently, double-checking they make sense from every possible angle. I want to be confident that I'm _right._ That I'm not being stupid. By the time I've done that, the conversation's already moved on.

It's never the right time to interrupt. It's a puzzle my brain doesn't know how to solve.

I mean, I can talk to people – I'm not an idiot – but you get my point.

"We _mega_ -need to get ourselves meshed," Izzy's saying. "There's has to be local datastreams still running, even if the main network's dead. If we find a hard-link, I bet I can bypass the security layer."

"You really think you can get into a government network?" Marko asks. "It's probably more difficult than you think."

Izzy narrows her eyes. "And how would you know?"

"I mean, I've seen the security my parents go through for their work. It's not exactly Starbucks Wi-Fi."

"Dude, I can hack a piddly little quantum cipher. It's _fine_."

"Well," Alex replies. "I guess that's only mildly illegal? By the way, are you guys carrying anything useful, like, on you? Right now? 'Cause if you're hiding a secret wormhole in your undies, now's the time for that last-second reveal."

"Oh, good point! Still got my drone."

Marko produces a pocketknife, its silver casing covered in fingerprints. "No wormholes, but this has some handy attachments. Plus, I've got three chewing gum wrappers."

"No gum?" Izzy asks hopefully.

"No gum."

Wordlessly, Alex holds up her notebook.

From the memory pocket of my hoodie I take two dark grey rectangles, each the size of a shoe sole. They're floppy like rubber but with a smooth, polished texture.

"Oh man, you got _Shoosters_?" Izzy says.

Shoe plus booster: it's what it sounds like. Shoosters were the hot new toy a few years ago, equivalent to strapping a couple of force impellers to your feet – a hoverboard without the board. Cool idea in principle, but I gave up on them after nearly launching myself off a thirtieth-floor balcony. My mum bought them as a birthday present, and while I appreciate the thought, I'm exactly the type of person who'd never use them (which means it's the exactly the kind of present I'm given, every single year). I brought them along because other people are usually keen to try them out, and hey, I need all the help I can get making friends.

"Shoosters, drone, pocketknife, notebook. _Fuck_ we're in trouble," Alex says. "Still, this place is pretty sizeable, so before we do anything we need to figure out where we're going. Unless you'd rather wander around blindly for three days."

"There's a map, isn't there?" Izzy says. "The one we saw before."

"Pretty sure that's in the bit of the station no longer attached," Marko replies.

"Well, that's tragic," Alex says.

"M-hm."

"Any other ideas?"

I raise my hand.

"Christ, what are we even _doing_?" Alex mutters. Why the _hell_ did we— I mean, we're basically dead, Kei _is_ dead—"

"He might not be," Izzy says.

"He's fuckin'... gone, Izzy. I saw it. And we are _stuck­_ in elliptical fucking orbit around fucking Saturn—"

"Alex, it's—"

"Don't say it. Don't."

I raise my hand higher.

Alex's eyes pin me down.

Via my MeshMate, I create a local channel. I spend a couple of seconds assigning a name; I decide on 'wormhole_in_your_undies' and see Izzy smile, barely. Then I share the snapshot I took ninety-three minutes earlier: it's the map we saw, mostly readable, apart from the bottom-left corner which is obscured by Kei's head.

"Huh," Marko says. "Good thinking, dude."

Izzy grabs the map and enlarges it, rendered mid-air by our MeshMates.

It's a 2-D map, so it's not super helpful, but it's a heck of a lot better than nothing. We can see the main accessways and where they lead, and how to get to the six primary areas of the station.

"Finn?" Alex says.

"Yeah?"

"You're alright, y'know."

High praise.

Each of the Starfish's arms appears devoted to a specific purpose. First is power generation, air filtration, thermal management, basically all the necessary recycling stuff; then long-term staff accommodation and the hydroponic greenhouses; then an entertainment arm where the tourists and visitors get shuttered; followed by comms, admin, and the main control centre; and finally the thickest arm, which is manufacturing and general storage. The Starfish's hub, perhaps the biggest area of all, is chock-full of science labs. Of course, it isn't totally segmented – plenty of stuff is scattered all over, like medbays, and life support substations, and big red crosses denoting the station's thrusters. The dock we're in now connects the administration and manufacturing arms (orused to), and a spiderweb of transit elevators seems like our best bet for getting around.

My stomach rumbles.

The map's a snowflake.

The transit tubes are spaghetti.

If I was home I'd simply _cook_ myself food; last week, I learned how to make old-style donuts.

They're _really_ good.

Sadly, not an option right now.

Honestly, I'd even settle for a salad. Some of my school friends call me 'cumbers', or cucumber: easily ignored, often boring, but probably good for you. I guess I see their point. Well, if I'm salad – Alex is pasta, Izzy's a spicy garlic bread thing, and Marko's those biscuits which you think are choc chip but end up being raisins.

This is because Marko's hiding something.

 _I'm_ hiding something, and I think he is, too.

Underneath his steady, casual tone, there's...

I stop looking at the map, staring at Marko instead.

Problem is, he's already staring at _me_.

He winks.

My heart skips.

"—so that's our route," Alex says. "Awesome. Easy. But what comes first: distress call or escape pods?"

"Or," Izzy says, "what if we split and do both?"

"Bad idea." Marko grimaces.

"It'll be faster, and if you think about it, we don't know how much time we've got before other stuff starts exploding. Plus, it's safer if we're in separate groups – if we run into serious trouble, then only two of us die. Right?"

"Well, that's grim."

"It's worth considering. But I'll go with whatever you guys decide."

"Eh," Marko says.

"I... agree," Alex says slowly. "With Izzy. Time could be an issue. Split up, we'll cover more ground. Staying in one group isn't inherently better under these extremely shitty circumstances, since we've got no idea what we're dealing with either way." Her brow furrows.

"Eh," Marko says.

"Totes fine if you don't want to," Izzy says.

"It's okay." Marko shrugs. "Let's split up."

The others look at me.

'Eh' about sums it up.

"Sure," I say.

"Then it's a plan!" Izzy replies. "An incredibly awesome foolproof plan that'll a-hundred-percent _work_."

Ferdinand kneads his claws on my shoulder, enjoying her enthusiasm.

"So we'll all meet back here?" Marko asks.

Izzy marks a security station on the map. "What about this place? It's _way_ more useful than staying in the docks. Safer too, I bet."

Alex nods. "Fine. But if there's a problem, and we can't make it, we come back. _We come back here and wait._ Agreed?"

I look at them.

They look at me.

Alex, teeth gritted, holding her notebook tight.

Marko, hands clasped behind his back.

Izzy, brimming with enthusiasm that's equally reassuring and bewildering.

Me, wielding a smile I must've stolen from a ghost.

It's so _strange._

Here, in this tiny airlock, I can almost pretend we're four normal high school students, together by circumstance, about to spend a few semi-educational weeks doing experiments and chatting about stupid memes and accepting each other's friend requests before parting ways forever. Over the years, I've become rather good at pretending.

Right now, though, that'll get us all killed.

I wonder how I'd feel, if I was the only one left. I wonder how much more scared I would be. Being alone is how my life usually goes; that's not always a bad thing.

I wonder how I'd feel if there were four faces staring back at me, instead of just three.

Alex shares a snapshot of her notebook pages. Suddenly, it doesn't seem like adequate preparation.

"I guess we should go," she says.

"Guess we should." Marko nods.

"Any last words?"

Marko shrugs. "Try not to get shot this time?"

"Wow. Inspiring."

I'm surprised when Izzy throws her arms around my chest. She smells of sweat, and static electricity, and melted plastic – we all do – and it takes me a moment to lift my arms and awkwardly hug her back. It feels strange. The last time I hugged somebody I was must've been five years old, but... it's nice, I guess. One by one she gives us each a quick, firm embrace.

"Stay safe," she says. "I don't want to lose any more friends."

Her smile's far too bright for her words.


	7. Finn

A virtual coin-flip pairs me with Marko. Our job: find a high-powered communications relay.

Behind us stretches a long, thin maintenance duct, for servicing the transit tubes between station arms. The transit capsules weren't working, but at least the duct was intact. Ahead is an iris-style hatch. 

"Ready?" he asks.

"Yeah."

The hatch opens. We're back we started.

The offices.

This time, though, we're on the opposite face of the station – top instead of bottom, a.k.a. station north. According to the map, this arm contains lots of the control systems and datacenters which support day-to-day operation, including – we hope – a comms relay. We're expecting to run into one several hundred metres hubward.

We float through the station, side by side.

Marko doesn't say much. Neither do I. Both of us are concentrating on navigating the environment without bumping into too many walls (with limited success, on my part). We pull ourselves from handhold to handhold, making short, cautious leaps when necessary, watching and listening at every junction or hatch or doorway. Ferdinand scuttles on ahead, tail swaying in the smoke-tinged air.

Things are deteriorating, and deteriorating fast. The glowstrips that line the hallways flicker incessantly, alternating between sickly blue and ominous black. Viewscreens blast generic alerts of 'catastrophic damage'. Lockers lie open, their contents spilled across passageways, clothes and coffee canisters and computer equipment to be swatted out of our path. The stress of the explosions has jammed doors, buckled ceilings, bent walls so far that they've snapped, revealing deep gashes in the station structure. Behind them, utility pipes spew unidentified fluids, coalescing into eerie jelly-like globes. Even the walls are ill, possessing the blotchy, faded sheen of cheap plastic after too many years in the sun.

The map isn't perfectly detailed, but we keep moving generally hubwards. The corridor splits. There's a drink fountain here and we greedily gulp down water, which, let me tell you, is tricky without gravity. Most of it seems to go everywhere but my mouth, but hey. Better than nothing.

Soon, we're cutting through a surprisingly large conference room – it must take up a significant slice of the station's arm – with stadium seats around a central circular screen.

It's empty.

The lighting's dim green.

The air smells of ozone.

We soar above the seats, row to row, towards the exit at the far side.

I glance at Marko. I'm not a person who minds the quiet, and it seems he doesn't either.

Still, I wonder what he's thinking.

"It'd be ace to watch some Formula H on that screen," he says.

Huh. Well, okay. "I don't really follow it," I murmur.

"No? I'm biased, but I've wasted _way_ too much of my life watching that stuff. It's honestly super cool. Look up Team FEISAR, once we get a mesh connection."

"Right."

I should add something more, but have I mentioned I'm bad at conversations?

Marko looks around. "D'you follow any sports?"

"Volleyball, I guess. Only because I play it."

"Oh, I used to play volleyball when I was younger. Not anymore though."

We glide towards the exit.

"Nobody's stopping us," I say.

"From what?"

"From watching Formula H on that screen."

"Ha." A smile, in the corner of his mouth. "I guess we can always come back, once we're done."

As we continue, the corridors become slimmer, more cramped, spiralling and curving and splitting from one another like the capillaries of a living thing. That's what this station is, in a way. Structures like this aren't really built, but grown. A tugboat drags a slab of space-grade polymer into orbit, dumps a bunch of energy into it, and the station starts to form according to its programmed blueprint. It turns out biologically-inspired designs are quite efficient – maximum utility in minimum volume – and with a flock of construction drones to do the fine-tuning, it takes mere months to grow a structure that's airtight and insulated and self-repairing and everything else you'd want. In contrast to earlier stations, which were just pre-fab modules slotted together like extra-expensive Lego, this is more... alive.

Alive, but dying.

Every compartment has that pre-symphony hush, the kind of silence that hurts if you break it. The mesh, though, must be overflowing with ear-piercing emergency warnings. It's strange, knowing so much data is flying around us while being completely unable to access it. It's like one of my senses was quietly silenced, and I'm only now noticing how much a part of me it was. The mesh, for instance, would've warned us about _this:_ a huge arc of electricity crackling floor-to-ceiling, blocking the corridor and our way forward.

"Okay," Marko says. "That's interesting."

I'd say mildly terrifying. The electricity jumps once or twice a second with an ear-splitting _ZAP!_ Lightning spiderwebs sear themselves into my retinas, dancing as they hit the polymer floor. Perhaps it's my imagination but the air feels distinctly tingly.

"Ferdinand? Voltage estimate?"

< _Unknown. Likely fatal. Large potential differences are required to arc across air gaps. >_

Marko raises an eyebrow.

"Ferdinand's my MeshMate," I explain. "I, uh, gave it a name."

"Ah."

The problem, as far as I can tell, is that there's a giant battery bank right next to this corridor. (It's not hard to figure this out; there are signs announcing it.) Something extremely important must've been dislodged by the commotion.

My eyes dart to a switchboard on the wall.

"You think we can turn it off?" Marko asks. "Could always find another route."

I shrug. "Worth a try."

Of course, the switchboard's locked behind a cover, but Marko digs around and pulls out his pocketknife. It's oddly hefty – less pocket, more knife – with a cylindrical housing nearly 20cm long.

He fiddles with a button on the side.

A metre-long red laser sprouts from one end. My jaw drops.

"Don't tell anyone I have this," he says, grinning over its hum. Then, he touches the tip of the beam to the switchboard latch. It takes a short while for the material to heat up, dissolving into red-hot droplets. The beam flickers. "Fun day, huh?"

"Yep." I'm hypnotised by melting plastic.

"So, I'm going to be honest. I don't really want to think about what's happening. What we're doing. Like, I sort of do wonder what Maritime was up to? And why they felt the need to fucking _shoot_ Kei? But also, I sort of don't. As long as we get out of here."

Understandable. And really, what's to talk about? There's a problem. We're fixing it. _Good_. Also, I'd really like one of those pocketknives.

"So," Marko continues, "because humans love to avoid their issues... what would you be doing right now? If it wasn't for all this." He waves his free hand behind him.

"Back on Earth?"

"Yeah."

"Uh... playing videogames, maybe. Walking around a bit, if my mum isn't home."

Marko blows on the latch, dislodging some material. "Walking where?"

"Y'know. Places. I've been nearly everywhere in the arcology, so I catch the hypertrain to other cities. Or I use VR sims. I used to go outside sometimes, but that's not allowed anymore." I shrug. "I guess I like exploring."

"Exploring, huh? Cool. What else do you like?"

Briefly, I debate whether to share my deepest, darkest secret, which is: "Seals."

"As in the flappy, honky things?"

"Those flappy, honky things are objectively the best animal."

I think Marko smiles, but it's hard to tell, with his back to me.

"Then," I say, "I'd probably cook dinner. Do some tutoring, if there's anybody scheduled." It's a wonder Marko hasn't already fainted with excitement.

" _Cooking_ cooking?" he asks. "Chopping stuff up, and... heating it, and whatever else?"

I nod, then realise he can't see me. "Yes."

"It's neat you know how to do that. My parents are all about synth-food, and while everything that comes out of those dispensers is _good_ , it's such a perfect and identical level of 'good' that I think I'm going crazy. It's like pizza tastes exactly the same as a burger. You ever feel that way?"

Nope. "Sure."

With a solid tug, Marko gets the switchboard open and peers inside. He flicks a couple of switches.

 _Clunk!_ A strange, vibrating whine comes from everywhere and I _hope_ it's the sound of the batteries shutting off because a few seconds later, the electrical arc disappears. With luck we didn't break anything important (or at least, break anything more). I grab a steel multitool that's floating by my head and chuck it down the hallway, right where the arc was.

Nothing happens. We're probably safe.

"Cool," Marko says.

We float past. I sniff the air, hold my breath. There's a grate through which I can see the batteries, shadowy rectangles in long, thin rows barely wide enough for a drone. Suddenly, a flicker of coloured light.

I blink. It's gone.

The hallway ends in a four-way junction. After consulting the map, we head up, into a cylindrical accessway. Here the lack of gravity helps – we can use the rungs on the walls to propel ourselves with surprising speed. We've probably saved a decent amount of time by deciding not to backtrack.

Marko floats ahead of me, a long, languid shape.

When he asked what I'd usually be doing back home... see, Marko isn't somebody I'd usually hang out with. He's popular, dripping with the casual self-confidence that means he's never had to think about _being_ popular kid. That's not to say I'm not a prime example of popularity myself, but he's a natural, and I'm... not. Every day, every minute, I have to concentrate at simply being _me_ , to stop myself collapsing into a singularity of silence and self-contradiction. That doesn't mean he's better than me, or vice versa, but – he's not the type of person who regularly crops up in my friend circles. _My_ friend circle is the kind that hasn't changed since third grade.

Also, if seals are objectively awesome...Marko's objectively attractive. His face is just _good_ , in the way that some faces are, with sharp eyebrows, a gaze that's both serious and warm, a light dusting of freckles. His smile, permanently ten-percent-there, makes him a kind of broody Mona Lisa. He's also tall, and graceful, and really fast, and— I guess his noise is pointy, if you're looking for something to criticise? His whole face is slightly pointy, like one of Alex's pens.

"You good?" he asks, glancing down at me.

"Sure," I say, struggling to keep up.

Still, everything's relative. I'm not tall, but I'm not short either. I'd never call myself graceful but I can usually avoid tripping over footpaths. My face might never be plastered across a billboard, but I do like the way my skin turns brown after a long day in the sun, and how my smile (the rarest of exotic birds) is slightly too wide, and how my eyes are just dark, without the warmth. I like that I'm thin enough to fit into absurdly small cupboards for the express purpose of scaring my friends. I _don't_ like the way my voice sounds, but who does?

At the end of the tunnel we rise, and keep rising, until we hit the ceiling of the room beyond. Most of my body still vaguely disagrees with this, and as I look to the floor, five metres below, there's a tingly ache in my feet.

This chamber is larger, almost cavernous. The lights are dim, and it's noisy too, a machinery-induced hum barely on the right side of 'deafening'. Elephant-sized pumps lie beneath mineral-stained housings, next to boxy CO2 scrubbers and electrolysers. Thick clusters of pipes sprout from the walls – red for oxygen, green for biofuel, blue for water – meeting in orderly jumbles, dotted with blinking status lights. Around the edges of the room, just beneath us, a catwalk winds its way between towering water tanks, their bulk hidden behind scaffolding.

It's a resource reclamation plant for recycling dirty air and water. As a kid, I loved these kinds of places; something about the complexity, the intersecting pathways, the idea of so many machines working together for a single, vital purpose.

"Is this where we're supposed to be?" Marko asks.

"Think so." I consult the map. "It's labelled as a utility substation but there should be another exit."

We grab the railings of the nearest catwalk, pulling ourselves forward. Below, one of the pipes is leaking. In fact, nearly half the electrolysers are dark, which is slightly worrying since electrolysis is used to generate oxygen. Out of the corner of my eye I see a multicoloured glow. When I look, there are only more shadows.

"So, here's a random question," Marko says.

"Sure."

"What's the most exciting thing you've ever done? Besides our current, ah... predicament."

Usually, I try and confine any excessive excitement to strictly virtual realities, but... "I've been in a situation like this before. A station where something similar happened – a system overloaded. There was a fire, and the evacuation was... chaotic. A few people died. Lots of damage. I was unconscious for most of it, though."

"Woah. You've had bad luck with space stations, then. When was this?"

"Three years ago. Ish."

"During the plague."

"Yeah." I'm careful not to say more. I'd rather not remember.

Marko twists so that he's gliding backwards above the catwalk. He wipes sweat from his face. I pull off my hoodie – nearly removing my shirt with it – and tie it around my waist.It's hot, with the pumps nearby.

"What were you on that station for?" Marko asks. I'm surprised he's talking this much, although I suppose I don't mind.

"Vacation research," I say. "Similar to now."

"Huh. You seem..." He smiles slightly. "...like a person who might do this a lot."

I'm pretty sure he's calling me a big ol' nerd.

It's true, though.

"My mum's a physicist," I say, "so maybe that's why. And you don't."

"I— what?"

"You don't seem like a person. Who'd do this. A lot." I wince.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" His smile widens.

"...Forget it."

"What kind of person _do_ I look like?"

This is probably the most I've panicked all day. "A nice one?"

"Ha. Okay." He rolls back over, opening the door ahead of us, which leads to another vertical accessway. "You said you live in the Westralia dome? With your mum?"

"Yeah. Just me and her. She travels a lot for her research, so I do get dragged around a bit."

Marko sighs. "I know that feel. Good for you, though, doing something you enjoy. Science is cool."

Science _is_ cool, and you can blame my mum for that side of me. She always loved being a part of that community. It's probably one of the few things she still loves. "I want to design spacecraft, I guess. Build them. Explore."

"Born too late to explore the world; born too early to explore the universe; born just in time to build some really cool spaceships?"

"Something like that. Hopefully born just in time to explore some nearby star systems."

"Sounds good," Marko says. "Let me know if you need a pilot."

He coughs, and I notice his voice has... changed? Before he sounded almost _weirdly_ blasé, all Captain America (Captain Finland?), whereas now he sounds much more like the rest of us. Scared teenager, desperately trying not to be. I also realise he's been asking all the questions, but that's fine, since my small talk skills are roughly equivalent to those of a thousand-year-old corpse.

We come to a hatch at the end of the accessway. It's locked by four levers.

Think of a question, Finn. Think of a question. Think of a darn question.

I cough. "So, now you know why I got stuck on this trip. What about you? Any special reason you applied?"

"I guess... hm." Marko shrugs. "I guess I wanted to get away from Earth for a while. Do something different."

"Oh. Why?"

"Eh, you know." Marko undoes the third lock. "Sometimes—"

_WHUMP!_

The hatch whips open. Before I know it we're sucked through by an impossible rush of air.

My vision blurs. My ears pop. It hurts and I can't see and I'm a leaf in a hurricane and everything's moving and I can't stop and I open my mouth to—

I slam into a wall and bounce off.

For a few moments, everything goes dark.

* * *

When I come to, it's like I'm staring at the world through a beer bottle. I blink a few times, trying to clear my head. It's like someone's driven a railroad spike through my skull.

I also can't breathe.

I can't breathe.

_I can't breathe._

I'm in a room – a big cylinder, lined with server racks – and it must've been breached. There's no air. No time to think as panic claws at my throat. I look up and spot Marko floating above me. He isn't moving. I launch myself up the racks, stop next to him. I grab his shoulders and shake, hard. The only sound's my heartbeat, drumming, drumming, drumming. I shake harder—

His eyes open.

His eyes widen. He grabs my arm, kicks off, yanking me after him as a comically-large crate filled with god-knows-what smacks into the computer racks where we were a second ago. I scream internally. The whole no-air no-sound thing is becoming a real problem and I see Marko gasping but there are doors, exits, and we spin towards one together. Shattered servers are suspended all around us, sparkling prettily in the grim red light.

We reach the door. My lungs are on fire. Marko slams his fist against the controls and shouts. He's probably telling me to brace. I brace. The door slices open and – _whump!_ – a gale of air, sucked into the vacuum.

Sound returns. The world shrieks. The air tears at us, our eyes, our clothes, and I snatch at it greedily, and debris tumbles past in deadly vortices and I stay low, I hold on, pulling, pulling, pulling myself towards the opening. My grip's giving way. My arms aren't strong enough.

Somehow, I roll into the corridor beyond. So does Marko, two seconds later.

I reach up smack the access panel.

The door slices closed.

Blessed calm.

I lie there, panting, too weak and disoriented to move.

So, here's a lesson: if a door _is_ closed, it might be closed for a good reason. There was probably a vacuum warning on the hatch which we completely ignored.

"Let's not do that again," Marko says hoarsely.

"Yeah." I cough. "Sounds good to me."

"I wonder how the others are doing."

"Better. I hope."

Slowly, I tilt myself upright. A drop of blood spirals off my forehead; I can't tell if it's from an old wound or new. Stings, though.

Marko gets to his knees as well, leaning on my shoulder. He doesn't look at me but shakes his head, bent double. I can feel his heartbeat through his ribs. I'm not sure what to do, so... I wait.

He gives my shoulder a quick squeeze, then moves away.

I realise I've been holding my breath.

It's funny. This entire time, I've been trying to keep him at arm's length. The thing is... I'm not sure I want to.

Pragmatically, we need to work together. If we want to survive.

I've _really_ tried to avoid thinking about this. 

Despite our unexpected detour, it's easy enough to loop back towards the comms relay. The air recyclers are working overtime to replace the chunk of atmosphere we dumped, and I wonder idly what Marko was going to say, before we nearly died like idiots. I've nearly worked up the courage to ask him – not that it should take much courage – when we drift past a medbay.

The door's jammed. We lever it open.

It's a small room, calming green, its centrepiece a memory-molded throne-like seat. An autosurgeon hangs from the ceiling, dormant, dozens of manipulators stowed away.

"You first," Marko says.

I don't bother protesting.

I sit. The chair cocoons me.

Ferdinand does the talking, since he knows what's wrong with my body better than I do. I tell myself to relax as mechanical arms descend towards me, servos buzzing, implements gleaming like diamonds. I close my eyes, concentrating on breathing.

A sharp itch atop my skull rapidly fades into numbness, followed by insistent tappings and scratchings from the robot's arms. My nose wrinkles at the stink of disinfectant. To Marko it probably looks like a nightmare, but to me it's no worse than a massage. Motors and tools move in perfect unison, cleaning my wounds, paving over the cracks with new cells.

Soft whirrs.

Incessant clicks.

Another, sharper sting as something's injected into my shoulder – a generous top-up of healing nanites.

The chair retreats. I prop myself up.

"Good as new?" Marko asks.

I touch my head, and there's no pain, which is probably a good sign (at least towards the quality of my painkillers). "Your turn."

Marko goes to the chair. Before he sits, he takes off his shirt and chucks it to me. I catch it, barely.

"Figure I should get my shoulder checked," he says. "Alex seems to know what she's doing, but..."

I look away as he lies down; I don't want to stare.

"You haven't met her before, right?" Marko asks.

"Nope," I reply.

"Thought you might be cousins. You do look like her."

Now that I'm considering it, I suppose there are similarities. Then again, people say I have my mother's eyes, but – I don't see it. With all the genetic fiddling that happens, family resemblances don't mean much.

Marko hisses in surprise. The surgical robot has stuck five separate needles into his shoulder, giving pinpoint access to internal damage. Dappled light from a scanner plays across his pale, toned chest. He's definitely athletic, more swimmer than weightlifter. I, on the other hand, look like neither of those things.

His stomach rises, falls, rises, falls. Tensed.

His shirt's scrunched in my fist.

A noticeboard on the wall proves less distracting: cheerful announcements of lunchtime barbecues, adverts for after-work salsa lessons, lecture listings with beautiful astronomical images attached. "' _First results from the Illumination test campaign: further theories towards extra-terrestrial communication._ '"

"What's that?" Marko asks.

"A lecture. In about three hours."

"Well, we _could_ still make it, if there's anyone left to do the talking." Anaesthetic slurs his words. "Actually, a weird school lecture is kind of the reason I'm here. Some army guy who'd won a bravery medal was doing lots of school visits, telling us to be courageous, take the lead, all that stuff. His name was _Butch_ , like – like he'd walked out of an action movie." He affects a surprisingly plausible American accent. "You gotta take the first step, kids! When life throws its punches, you gotta dodge and punch back! That's how I survived, and that's how you'll thrive!" He grimaces. "Thought it was a load of crap at the time, but I guess it made an impression."

"So... this trip is you throwing a punch at life?"

"Ha. Sure. Bad aim, but it's a real huge target."

"The last guy who came to talk at our school was Russian," I reply. "He had, uh... tentacles. More of a 'don't do drugs' type of chat." I go for an accent which is Russian in my head, but comes out as more of a strangled Dracula. "You must be veeeery careful. You cannot mess around with these things, my friends. People make these modifications but do not think of the side effects."

I blush. Why the _­heck_ would I try a voice when that literally _never_ goes well— 

"Side effects, huh?"

"Oh yes. Side effects, very bad. Like vodka hangover mixed with bear fight."

"Tell me more. Using lots of complicated words."

"Nuh-uh! Nope! The guy _was_ quite nice though. And to be honest, the tentacles seemed kind of useful."

Marko gives me an amused glance. The autosurgeon emits a bright little fugue as it finishes patching him up, then folds itself away, a spider returning to its cave. Strangled Dracula, on the other hand, is going into permanent exile. I might send some assassins to hunt him down, just in case.

Marko cracks his knuckles, suspended above the chair. "Nice meeting you... wait, what was his name?"

"Oleg, I think."

"Nice meeting you, Oleg."

I regret a lot of what I do. 

My gaze flicks away, towards the noticeboard to avoid staring any more at Marko. One good thing: dying from embarrassment has, for thirty seconds, distracted me from dying from suffocation. Or hypothermia. Or blood loss. Generally dying, I suppose. I sigh, running my fingers through my hair.

His hand's on my shoulder. "Could I have my shirt back?"

"Oh! Sure."

He slips it on, and it automatically smooths out the creases. "We'd better— wait. Hide!"

He presses himself against the wall by the door.

It takes me a slack-jawed second to do the same.

Shining through the gap in the medbay doors is an otherworldly blue glow.

It's bright. Bright enough to throw a sharp line of light across the floor, past our feet.

Whatever's making it is close. Close enough to have heard us talking. The line of light inches left to right as its source approaches along the corridor outside.

Marko crouches, eyes wide. He mouths at me, but I can't tell what saying. A few moments later, a message appears in my inbox.

_< Is it them?>_

_< Don't know> _I reply. _< Maybe drone? Maybe Al + Iz?>_

He shakes his head.

Yeah, I don't think so either.

There is absolutely _nowhere_ to hide in this room.

Probably should've closed the door.

In case someone's looking for our Mesh signals, I tell Ferdinand to go dark.

Slowly, though, the light is changing. The blue becomes deeper, darker, more indigo, until it's a pure, saturated purple.

It stops moving.

It's extremely bright.

It must be right outside.

The weird thing is, I can't _hear_ anything: no footsteps, no voices, only my own heartbeat, loud as a jackhammer, my nerves concrete in my stomach. I'm incredibly tempted to peek through the door but I'd be silhouetted worse than a kangaroo in headlights. Marko's arms are wrapped around himself, clamping down on whatever's bubbling inside.

The light starts moving again. Its colour's still changing, from purple to pale red.

I watch the line on the floor as it sweeps towards me, growing dimmer...

Until, half a minute later... it winks out.

Whatever it was, it's gone.

Hopefully.

Marko keeps his head down, but he definitely saw it. I can't brush this off as my imagination playing tricks anymore, taking spiteful advantage of past traumas.

"What... what was that?" Marko whispers.

"I don't know," I say. "Although... I think it—"

I catch myself before I say too much, my veins suddenly ice.

"I don't know," I say again. "But we should be careful."

The trouble is, I _want_ to say too much. With Marko, I can't help it. He seems to have this strange ability to draw thoughts out of my head and into reality, moreso than almost anyone, apart from my best friends back home.

Still, if we want to be safe, I shouldn't say anything.

So I don't.


	8. Finn

The communications relay is full of bodies.

They float, motionless, at a dozen different angles. Some are standing. Some are sitting. Some have their knees bent, arms outstretched, bracing for an impact that never comes. Some have been pushed together, side by side, never to be parted. In the dimness I can't properly see faces, so I can pretend they're statues in a museum, or a gallery, or... 

A forest.

It's the only way my brain can process what it's seeing.

There's no blood, no injuries. Most look relatively serene. They appear to be station staff – maintenance workers, satellite operators, engineers – except for a small group wearing vacsuits, snub-nosed rifles in their hands.

"Are they dead?" Marko whispers.

If they aren't dead, they aren't alive either.

The closest body – a young woman – floats on her side, facing us. Her hair is a black shroud across her eyes. Expecting her to wake at any moment, to grab me, to scream – I lean closer.

She's still warm.

She isn't breathing.

None of them are breathing.

"Pulse?" Marko asks.

I shrug.

With all the gingerness of a newborn joey, he places a couple of fingers on her neck.

I wait.

He shakes his head.

There's so many figures _,_ twenty, maybe thirty, packed in this circular room. I feel like I'm suffocating. I expect it to smell like an ancient Egyptian tomb, hot and humid with the essence of decay, but it doesn't. Apart from the bodies, nothing is out of place.

'Apart from the bodies', though, is a pretty significant qualifier.

However, no matter how creepy it is – I'm settling on 'extremely' – this room _is_ our goal. We could potentially locate a different comms relay but I'd rather stop adding to the 'times I've almost died' tally and just get this over with. Calling for help will only take a minute, and after that we're free to park ourselves somewhere and wait for the cavalry in peace.

Right?

Cautiously, we float to the communications consoles in the middle of the room. Shadowed faces gape as we pass; I'm sure their vacant eyes are tracking us behind our backs.

The consoles are six large screens in a semicircle, mounted above angled touchscreen panels, interface ports hang from the ceiling nearby.

I place my palm on the central panel. It lights up and a message appears on the screens: _'satellite driver error: amb256.sys.ros'._

"Huh," I say.

"Problem?"

"Yeah. Might be one I can fix, though."

"Okay, you do that while I have a look around. Fast fixes preferred, please." Marko shivers, slipping between a few of the corpses. He brushes one accidentally and jerks away.

Theoretically, I know what a driver error is. A file got deleted, or a stray cosmic ray scrambled a hard drive and now the app doesn't have what it needs to interface with the satellite transmitters.

First question: where _should_ the driver be? Perhaps it's there but isn't being recognised. In the corner of the screen it tells me how to boot into repair mode, and I hold down a finger-torturing combination of switches and restart the system. It's confusing, navigating the relay's weird filesystem; my fingers tap-tap-tap on the console, lit by the pale green glow of the screens. It turns out the driver isn't in the assigned directory, but there is a software patch sitting right there. I run it to see what happens.

' _Installation error: permission denied.'_

Fair. I give myself administrator access and try again.

_'Installation error: file already exists.'_

I run a more thorough search. It turns out 'amb256.sys.ros' _is_ there, but has been artificially quarantined. I try deleting it so I can install a fresh version.

_'Permission denied: read-only.'_

I sigh.

"How's it going?" Marko asks.

"It's... going," I reply.

"Well, keep at it."

"Planning to."

"Because if you'd forgotten, our lives do depend on getting this communications array working." He appears round the the screen, smiling beatifically.

I roll my eyes. "Totally slipped my mind."

"I _really_ appreciate getting to spend so much time in this room. Don't you?"

I stare at him. "Yes."

He tilts his head, sauntering out of view.

Okay, back to work. The file's read-only, but I can change that. I modify permissions on the entire directory and re-run the installer. Its progress bar ticks along steadily, a waterfall of filenames running down my screen.

Once it's done, I restart the console.

And...

_'Satellite synchronisation error: carrier interference on band A-13.'_

Logically, clicking a dozen more times won't help. I do it anyway.

Nope.

I stare at the error message, my eyes glazing over.

Then I shut my eyes and breathe, very slowly. I feel myself float, perfectly still. I can sense every extremity of my body, my tongue, my fingers, my tiptoes.

Don't get frustrated. You're won't be defeated by a software glitch.

Ferdinand flicks his tongue, perching on my knee.

Carrier interference implies that something, or someone, is blocking the relay's usual transmission band.

There must be a way to check what's coming in and out at each frequency.

I find a utility that does exactly that.

 _Blocked,_ it says.

_Blocked._

_Blocked._

_Blocked._

Every regular transmission frequency is out of commission; the station can't get a fix. I can't help but wonder if we're being deliberately jammed, because I don't know what else would gridlock the entire transmittable range. Perhaps electromagnetic interference from Saturn—

"You doing okay?" Marko asks.

"Yeah, just thinking."

"That's a relief," he mutters. "Thought you'd been zombified like the rest of these idiots. Pretty sure I'd go crazy on my own."

"Really? You seem like someone who can... do stuff. Handle themselves. More than me, anyway."

He snorts. "Thanks, I guess. Well, I'm good at some things. Playing the piano. Flying too fast. Breaking very specific peoples' noses. Disappointing my parents. Actually, I'm good at pretending _not_ to disappoint them, but they'll figure me out one of these days. Oh hey, I found one of the emergency supply lockers! Wow, there's _loads_ of stuff in here."

So, I don't think it's possible to piggyback on an existing signal – at least without doing some fancy quantum garbage – which means electromagnetic interference can't be bypassed altogether. However, it _should_ be possible to overpower it, if we can blast a strong-enough signal through. I wonder if I can boost the power of our satellite relay?

It turns out I can boost it a _lot._ I divert as much as I can of the station's remaining power; any more and I'll need a security override.

Marko's rummaging through the supply locker, humming to himself. I'm pretty sure it's the song from the 'awkward slow dance' section of last year's school disco. Just like that, I'm back to worrying about clammy hands.

"If you could sing in tune, that'd be nice."

"Ex _cuse_ me?"

"You heard me." I smile faintly.

"I did, but I didn't realise you were such a bully."

"Well, now you do."

Marko's forlorn snuffles echo around the chamber. "You're... you're so heartless," he says, a slight catch in his voice.

I wave my arm at the bodies."Maybe that's what's wrong with these people."

"God, I hope not. Okay, so the good news is, I found some pressure suits and a big squishy thing which I think is an emergency airlock. There _were_ ration packs here but they must've been taken. I'm hungry. Are you hungry?"

"A little."

"This sucks. This whole thing _sucks_. I hate space."

"Well, it is a vacuum."

A pause.

" _Eeeuuggh_ ," Marko groans. "Boo. Go home."'

I restart the comms relay. Transmissions bounce from satellite to satellite.

I've always wondered how people cry on command. You're supposed to imagine something sad – like a pet dying – but even when my pet _actually_ died, my eyes were bone-dry. _Sorry, Ferdinand. You deserved better._

"Before, you were talking about why you came here," I say. "You said you wanted to do something different."

"I did?"

"Like, fifteen minutes ago."

"Oh. I _did_." Marko pauses. I can't see him, but I imagine him floating there, staring into space as he thinks. "So, you know how things can be exciting, at first, but if you keep doing them it stops being exciting and becomes... normal? Like, if things change, but then _keep_ changing, and changing, then is that really 'exciting', or is all that change just the same? Ugh, I have no idea what I'm saying."

"I get it," I say. "Sort of."

He sighs a long, deep sigh. "I mean, my life's fine. Thing is, I end up switching schools every six months, following my parents around, and eventually, adapting to new places gets tiring."

"Can't you go to one of those online mesh schools? Boarding school?"

"Parents aren't keen on either option. Anyway, I thought this would be a chance to start fresh: meet new people, mind my own business, do some work, no expectations."

I frown to myself. "You were tired of new places, so... you came to a new place?"

"Well, it sure sounds stupid when you put it like that," he says neutrally.

I think back to Marko's words, the ones that started all of this: ' _You're lying.'_

 _'Comm-link established,'_ the console announces. _'Signal quality: 18%.'_

"Hey, I think I fixed it."

"Holy crap, really? Good job, dude."

I shrug. "Easy enough. I only needed to bounce a few signals off Saturn, sacrifice a couple of goats."

"Yeah, there's nothing that can't be solved with a good goat sacrifice. That's what I usually do when my parents call me for tech support."

Marko floats toward me, gazing at the screens. (It doesn't even ask for a password, which is an unintended side effect I'll take full credit for.) The mere sight of its simple, clean interface, waiting for an input, makes me weirdly happy. For the first time today, my entire future isn't weighing on my shoulders, as if one wrong move will end my life, as if the nightmare's real and I _did_ forget to study for that exam tomorrow. Now we've got a connection to the rest of the universe; a universe full of people who can deal with this situation way better than we can.

My heart leaps. It's a perfect triple-somersault.

"Do you wanna make the call?" Marko asks.

"Uh – you do it."

"Okay."

I tell the system to broadcast to every receiver in range, and 3D-scanned versions of ourselves bloom on the screen. We look tired, messed up, like we have no idea what we're doing –which I suppose is the truth. Marko swallows, drunk on an unsteady cocktail of nervousness and relief. He drums his fingers on his leg, fast, urgent. _Tap, tap. Taptaptap._

When he speaks, his voice is serious.

"This is an urgent SOS, from Starfish Station. There has been an attack, which set off explosions across the structure. Many systems are damaged. We need _immediate_ assistance. We aren't sure how many survivors there are, or what happened... we're looking for escape pods, but we're not sure if there are any, or how much longer we can survive. This is an urgent SOS, from Starfish Station. To anyone who's listening, there was an attack that caused explosions all over the station. There's catastrophic damage and we need immediate assistance..."

He repeats the message, over and over.

I'm not sure what a reply will look like until, sixty seconds later, one arrives. _Ping!_ Incoming communications request. I panic till I figure out how to accept it.

A fuzzy orange hologram sparks to life. Vague shapes form and dissolve amid an ocean of static.

A garbled voice speaks: " _Star—...—tion. Do—...—read?"_

I exchange a glance with Marko. He leans closer. "Yes, this is Starfish Station! We are survivors of an attack on the station! We need help! Who are you?"

For a long, long moment, there's no answer.

Ten seconds.

Twenty.

Thirty.

Marko shakes his head. Then—

" _—derstood. How—...—vivors? What is—...—ation?"_

Light delay, lots of it. The ship, or station, must be a long distance out. The hologram coheres into the curves of cheeks, lips – a woman's face? – before shattering into luminescent dust.

"Could you repeat that?" Marko asks. "The signal's bad, we're not receiving everything. There are at least four survivors we know of, hopefully more. Lots more. How far away are you?"

We wait.

Thirty seconds later: " _—hours. I repeat, six hours. Is—...—ronment still dangerous?"_

Suddenly, I notice the floor's a different colour. It's a pretty shade of lilac.

I turn.

Intense purple light spills through the doorway, silhouetting the bodies, casting tessellated shadows across the room.

"Hey, look!" I hiss.

"What?"

" _Look!_ "

Marko tears himself from the screen. His eyes widen.

He grabs my wrist so tight it stings, kicks off, launches us across the chamber, sending unconscious bodies flying. He slams into the wall next to the emergency locker, then I do, swings himself through the opening and drags me in behind him before I can catch my breath. The locker's small, filled with stuff, and there's barely enough room for both of us but Marko reaches out and grabs the door and pulls it shut.

We wait, silent, shoulder to shoulder. My wrist aches.

We can see through a grating in the locker, a world in thin slits. The purple glow becomes more and more intense, until...

It appears.

Although I'm not sure what 'it' is.

Light is everywhere, emanating from the doorway, lurid shafts that illuminate arms and legs and spill through the gaps in the locker onto our terrified faces. It's as if you took the very concept of light itself and made it solid, something you could touch, and carve; something that flows like honey, or water; something that billows like steam from a coffee cup caught in gusting breeze.

It moves slowly into the communications room.

It's not a... a _thing_ , though. It doesn't have a body, or a shape. It's just... light.

" _—fish Station, please respond. Are—­_... _—able to confirm an—...—hostile parties?"_

It shivers.

_"Starfish Station?... respond?"_

Probably should've have ended the call. I don't even know if I should be afraid, but this feels... wrong. A bead of sweat trickles behind my ear.

The light floats towards the comms console. It's slow. Deliberate. Silent.

Until it isn't.

"Fish... fish... fissshhhhh... shon... shon... shon..."

Fear brushes its fingers across my neck. The thing's voice is wind, the wind that gusts around lampposts on a black, rainy night, broadcast through a dead car stereo.

I glance to my left. Marko's staring straight ahead. Inside the locker there's no room to move, boxes at my back, Marko's elbow digging into my side. I can feel him shivering. The light's close enough to start absorbing the hologram, swallowing it whole.

"— _can hear us, we are six—...—all we can to help. Are you inju—...—respond! Please—"_

Suddenly, the equipment shorts out.

The screens go dark.

The light stops moving.

It goes dark too.

Suddenly, the room's empty.

No light.

No monsters.

Just... us.

I shudder, and breathe, and blink—

I see—

Against my eyelids—

Something.

Lines, colours. A scribble in the void.

My eyes snap open.

Room still empty, forest of bodies.

Eyes closed, shut tight.

In of noisy, red-tinged darkness, I see:

It's vaguely round. A few metres in diameter. It looks... drawn, almost, a violent child's scribble of a thousand-pointed star, the same grainy texture as blunted graphite. It flickers, vibrates, morphing from shape to shape, flipping through a lifetime's sketches in an instant. Complex protuberances blink in and out of view.

It's a star being tortured. A tiny star, in need of an exorcism.

Exactly where the light used to be.

 _< Close your eyes>_ I tell Marko. _< NOW>._

It hovers, before me, amid the night inside my head. No matter how much I try to focus on it, my brain swims and I _can't._ It's like I'm going cross-eyed, like my thoughts are broken. More and more, I'm noticing shapes in its silhouette: an infinitely long line criss-crossing and looping back on itself, the same pattern endlessly repeated, remade, like... a fractal. That's what it reminds me of. That's why it fills me with vertigo, why my brain struggles to find a reference point. I feel sick.

It makes me want to vomit.

It makes me want to be somewhere else.

"Frac... tal..." it emits, in rasping, aching speech.

This is a dream.

This has to be a dream.

I open my eyes. I'm still inside the locker.

In my darkness, the scrawl is red. Dark, bloody red.

It drifts towards us, swirling, twitching, with a strange sense of aimlessness. Glowing tendrils reach out from it, and... I think it's touching the bodies. That's what it _would_ be doing, if I could see it outside my head.

"Errrr... errrr... rrriikkkk..."

Marko twitches.

He's getting this, right?

The thing is close, five metres away. It stretches for another body, a sleeping girl. I barely see her in the dimness, a vague shape, but I watch her, eyes wide, and then I scrunch them closed and watch _it_ , and instead of looking _at_ it, I look through it, past it, past the far wall, imagining Saturn hanging there, suspended among the stars.

I focus on the planet.

The scribble blurs, but... I can see, now. I see what's inside.

Filaments.

Pillars.

A place.

A _universe_.

My heart pounds.

It's looking at me.

_It's looking at me. It knows we're here._

_It doesn't want to hurt us. It doesn't want to kill us. Oh, no. It wants to do much, much worse—_

"ERRIK!" it shrieks, all snakeskin and ocean depths and abandoned sewers, and I lose my grip and Marko spasms and I'm dreaming because I think the bodies spasm too.

The star boils. The light's suddenly back.

It's angry red.

Hypnotic purple.

Icy blue, cold as the Antarctic. Blue slits, cast against our faces.

The light glides to the door, quickly, evenly, passes through it into the hallway and—

—disappears.

It's dark.

Is it?

It's dark.

A sheen of sweat covers every inch of me.

I don't want to move. (But my legs ache with cramps.)

I don't want to breathe. (But I'd like to keep breathing more.)

Question: _What? The? Hell?_

It felt alive, but unlike any living thing. Unlike anything _un_ living, either. This is a research station. They do experiments. It must be related. Right? My mum has worked on some weird-ass research, shot-in-the-dark skunkworks stuff I'm definitely not supposed to know about, but all that combined wouldn't get five percent of the way towards 'giant freaky light monster'.

Monster. Is that the right word?

Yeah.

Monster.

Maybe it's not an experiment. Maybe they found it, inside Saturn. I remember the lecture flyer from the medbay – ' _further theories towards extra-terrestrial communication_.' It could be alien. It _felt_ alien.

"No," Marko whispers. "No, no, no."

What if it's related to whoever's trying to disable the station? Did they know about the monster? Would that justify rounding everyone up at gunpoint? I don't know. I don't know.

Marko's shivering, more and more. His knee spasms against the locker door. "No, no, no..."

I should say something.

My head runs through a hundred comforting statements. They're rubbish.

Say something, Finn. Open your goddamn mouth.

This is what's so frustrating about being _me_. It should be incredibly easy to ask 'hey, are you okay?' Simple question. Four words.

What if he isn't, though?

He doesn't look okay.

I could pat his shoulder?

Nah. Feels weird.

Just _say_ something, Finn! It's not hard!

I bite my cheek. It hurts, a lot. "Hey. Marko?"

"No," he whispers.

"Marko?" My voice changes. "It is... it is me, Oleg. Would you like some vodka?"

He turns to me.

He blinks.

"Oh," he says. "Hey."

Jerkily, he opens the locker.

We pull ourselves out.

I wince at the pins and needles in my legs, forcing myself to stretch, through the pain. Perhaps Oleg should start visiting coma patients.

Marko cracks his knuckles, slouching against the wall. 

"You alright?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"What... what do you think that was?"

"Does it matter?" He smiles oddly.

Um... yes? What if we run into another one of those... things? Or worse? At this point, finding a tomb full of Cthulhu-worshipping cultists wouldn't be _totally_ out of the question.

"We just need to find a place to hide," Marko says. "Somewhere safe. We got the word out, and they're coming to rescue us. Six hours, she said. They'll be here in six hours. We also need a way to talk to... whoever it is, who's coming. And I'm not keen on staying in this room specifically."

He floats to the comms console.

Somehow, he looks like he's just come in from an evening walk, studiously ignoring anything out of the ordinary.

It turns out the console is fried; it won't even turn on anymore.

"Can we reboot the station Mesh from here?" he asks. "Izzy mentioned something about that."

"I don't know."

"Then we should go meet the others. Maybe they've managed to."

"Okay."

I can't muster the will to say anything else.

I don't know _what_ to say. Like usual.

We gather supplies from the emergency locker. First, we slip into vacsuits, zipping them up over our clothes. They're made of a flexible, body-hugging material, pure white, with origami helmets that fold open at our touch. Each suit's fitted with an hour's oxygen supply and low-power backpack thrusters, and the boots and gloves are layered with gecko-style adhesive pads. A racecar-red luminous stripe runs across my chest and thighs. The suits aren't meant for long-term survival, but it's far, far better than nothing. We extra grab suits for Alex and Izzy just in case, and a tool bag that Marko slings over his shoulder. I test the searchlights on my chest and they're shockingly bright. Best keep them off to avoid attracting attention.

We leave much more stealthily than we arrived, continuing hubwards, to where this arm meets the manufacturing arm like the webbing between two fingers. That's where the security station is – our rendezvous.

Marko stays quiet, and so do I, watching for strangely-coloured lights.

He seems okay, for now.

I hope he's okay.

We squeeze through a hatch, into what we think is the station's control centre. Instead of gloomy, cramped hallways lined with pipes and conduits and switchboards, there are gloomy, slightly less-cramped hallways lined with screens and consoles and lockers. Circular control rooms surround a central elevator shaft.

Here, however, there are more signs of life. A hover-cart of rubbish bags jams open a door, behind which is a shadowed computer room, thrown into disarray. Frozen Coke waterfalls are suspended across a break room, and a dozen plastic plates form a messy, pungent stormcloud, strands of spaghetti slicked on six different surfaces. Discordant music emanates from inside.A soccer ball floats between suction-cupped goal posts.

We make our way forwards until we reach the elevator.

Red is slicked across the call button. A smudged, bloody palm print.

"Huh," Marko says.

I press the button anyway. The floor vibrates, and – ding! The capsule's doors open. There's more blood inside: three paint-like streaks on the floor, another on the ceiling. I try to avoid thinking about it. Or stepping in it. Or breathing in.

I select a destination. The capsule accelerates, the floor jumping to meet us. My legs wobble, nearly falling.

I'll be glad when this is over.

Say it aloud, he can't hear what's inside your head.

I clear my throat. "I'll... I'll be glad when this is over."

"Agreed," Marko says.

"What do you think happened here?"

"I don't know." He shrugs. "Hard to speculate."

I close my eyes, listening to the elevator's hum.

"We're still alive, though," Marko adds.

"Yeah. We are."

That means something, in all of this. Even if we're unsure about literally _everything_ else... we're alive. For now.

Most of us are, anyway.

"What's your family like?" I ask.

"Huh?"

"Your parents, back home. What are they like? Do they miss you?" I'm not sure why that question bubbled up; I guess it's because Marko seemed iffy about them earlier. He still hasn't told me much about himself. _Be interested, Finn. Make conversation._

"They're... fine? They're... you know. Parents. Sometimes you hate 'em, sometimes you don't. I guess they'll miss me – they're definitely _worried_ about me. Like, do you ever wish your parents cared less about what you do?"

"Uh, no. Not really. Mostly the opposite."

"Well." Marko smiles. "It's a nice problem to have. They can be overbearing, that's all. _Pushy._ Wanting the best, et cetera."

The elevator stops accelerating. We start floating again.

"Any brothers or sisters?"

"I had a brother," Marko says. "Used to."

"Oh. I'm – I'm really sorry."

"Yeah, it sucks. Can't change it. Hey, do you listen to much music? Follow any bands? I've been learning some new songs recently, could use your opinion."

Trust me to hit on two bad topics in a row. I spread my hands helplessly. "I'm not really a music person. Weird, I know."

"Damn, we might have to bring out Oleg again." Marko grins, sticking a hand inside his pressure suit, withdrawing a small, foil-wrapped square. "I was saving this for later, but we might as well have it now. Hashtag no regrets."

He unwraps the square.

It's... chocolate.

"Oh _wow_ ," I murmur.

"Yeah? Dude, I _live_ for chocolate, it's literally the only thing keeping me sane. Want some?"

"Sure, if—"

He hands me a piece. I half-expect it to be a mirage, but I pop it into my mouth.

It's very good.

It's _very_ good.

"We should probably share it with the others," I say, mouth half-full.

"Eh. They'll never know."

I swirl the chocolate around, letting it melt on my tongue.

The elevator decelerates. We're thrust towards the ceiling. I stop myself with my arms, stomach muttering in protest.

We've reached our destination. The elevator _dings._

The doors open to reveal a hallway.

When I blink, it's filled with light.

Fractals stagger across space like lightning. My eyes are closed, closed, drowning in colours I've never seen – a kaleidoscope of impossible rainbows, of shimmering curtains, of vibrating strings tied through walls, doors, each other. I can't pick out what's solid and what isn't. My skull aches.

I don't allow myself to panic. It's hard, but I don't. I avoid focusing on the fractals, and instead I focus _past_ them until the colours blur together.

Somehow, that makes them snap into focus.

Closest to us is a shape – an outline.

I recognise it.

It's a person.

A person, made of light.

Behind them is another person, and another, and another, until the corridor consists of nothing but overlapping, glowing _people_. It's a sea, an ocean of a hundred thousand souls.

They look at us.

They open their mouths.

And they scream.


	9. Alex

Izzy's about to lose it and I don't know what to do.

She sniffs. Her tears stick to her eyes, making them bulge with glistening wetness like the world's sketchiest Disney princess. Maybe it's my time to cheer her up with a crowd-pleasing, beautifully animated musical number, but in life, I've found that breaking out into song isn't as effective as fiction makes it out to be.

Okay, yes, I was the only kid tone-deaf enough to be kicked out of our primary school choir.

No, I'm not bitter. Why do you ask?

We float onward, into a pitch-black room big enough for a decent game of cricket. Surrounding us is a 3D-printed structural latticework - perhaps the first stage of a station expansion. Pillars join and split like tree branches, creating a mind-bending array of cubes, triangles, hexagons, shapes I don't know the names of, their faces still to be fleshed out with walls and floors and ceilings. Spindly robotic arms lie dormant, paused mid-way through depositing material. For instants, as we pass, the structure's geometry lines up perfectly before splitting apart again like disposable chopsticks.

Izzy's drone lights the way, casting shadows that dart and chase through the gloom; perhaps we're crabs scuttling along the ocean floor, exploring the skeleton of a long-dead whale.

In this silvery dimness, I'm forced to hold my notebook roughly three inches from my nose. The words ' _find escape pods in manufacturing section_ ' are underlined four times and circled twice, which felt like enough detail to go on fifteen minutes ago, but now, in hindsight, I'm _much_ less pleased with past Alex's state of mind.

Thanks a lot, past Alex. I can confidently say you've been responsible for 90% of the terrible decisions in my life.

That time you found a huntsman spider in your sports bag? Past Alex's fault.

That time you fell off Tomato Tower and broke both your arms? Past Alex's fault.

The nonsensical reason you're stuck on this space station? Oh, I wonder who stacked _that_ pile of rubbish.

This giant manufacturing hall does remind me of home. Nowadays, growing crops in the open will only get them chewed up by a mega-storm, so most farms require protection under gigantic climate-controlled domes. Domes are expensive, which means minimal surface area is desirable, which means compact, twenty-storey towers of hydroponic vegetable beds. On our farm, Tomato Tower was my favourite: a stack of huge, 3D-printed sheets overflowing with plants and sprinklers and UV lights. I loved climbing it, clearing fungus, helping my fix the parts bots couldn't reach, and I didn't even mind the work because it felt like my own private forest.

I wonder if that's what this structure will be used for. It's not cheap to ship fresh food out to Saturn, so most stations devote some space towards growing their own.

Thinking of home is nice in some ways, but also makes me ache, deep down.

Izzy's still sobbing quietly, trying to not make it obvious but we're the only two people here and it's _bloody_ obvious. I sigh inwardly, feeling very unqualified for... whatever this is. "Hey, Izzy. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong. It's fine."

"So... you're super happy? Tears of joy? Is that it?"

She wipes her eyes. Moisture twinkles like diamond.

"I get it," I say. "Plenty of reasons to feel like shit, things are bad, tons of people are probably dead. But we're not, so let's keep it together. Otherwise you'll make _me_ cry and nobody wants that. It makes me look like bloody Voldemort. The half-dead version, after he's been hit with a few spells."

"I killed those people," she says. "I killed Kei."

I am _definitely_ unqualified for this. "You didn't."

She smiles painfully. "That's not true."

I shake my head, stealing a pretender's calm. "Firstly, I didn't see anyone flat-out die, and secondly, you aren't the one who set those charges. You aren't the one who wanted to blow up the station. That was the hijackers. The criminals. Not you."

"I pressed the button, and you said you saw Kei die. You said it. So... I killed him."

"You can't think like that. That's not how this works."

"Then how _does_ it work?" She flicks a teardrop, suspended, shattering it into a thousand pieces. "They're _dead,_ all those people, they're _dead_ , and us too, it was so close to being _us_ —"

"Stop! Stop it, please. You... couldn't have known, alright? Believe me, it's not like any of us knew what would—"

"What would happen?" Suddenly she laughs, coughing up a breath. "Of course I knew, Alex, why else would I _do_ it? I thought the explosion would help us escape but I didn't think about _after_ because I'm an idiot and every single thing I do ends like this and it's always my fault, MY FAULT and now people are gone because I'm stupid and I didn't frickin' _think_. It was the same with my grandparents, and the bridge, and—"

"Fine! Maybe it was your fault. Maybe you're responsible." I reach out and grab her arm, hoping it feels brave, reassuring, that my clammy sweat won't soak through her blouse. "Right now, that's the last thing that matters. Me, Finn, Marko, we need you, and if we aren't 100% focused on surviving we don't stand a chance. Whatever happened, you can still save the rest of us. _And that's worth something._ Right?"

She opens her mouth to retort, but – instead, takes a breath. It's a huge breath, the size of Olympus Mons, and her eyes are red and her nose is snotty but she holds it and shoves everything it contains deep inside. I'm squeezing her arm. I'm squeezing it because she isn't listening and I'm telling her white lies and I think I'm somehow angry at her. I'm angry she's the one who gets to fall apart.

She's quiet.

She looks at her feet. She's... shaking.

You're in control, Alex.

You're in control.

You're in control.

"You've got really strong hands." Her voice cracks.

"Sorry."

"I think I have a bruise."

"I didn't mean to—"

"No. It's okay. Just be quiet. Please."

I shrug helplessly.

She rubs her wrist where I touched it.

From a certain point of view, is it her fault Kei's dead?

If so, it's also thanks to her that we escaped.

'Escaped.' We should've surrendered. Those hijackers wouldn't have hurt us too badly.

 _But they shot Kei_ , my brain says. _You could've helped him too._ _He was nice, but you left him bleeding on the floor._

What if I hadn't?

What if I'd turned back, and...

Don't.

There's an airlock on the far side of the half-finished lattice. A sign implies it leads further into the station, which is promising, as opposed to dumping us out into space. This part of Starfish has been completely devoid of activity; the air feels simultaneously humid and chilled like inside of a corpse's mouth (not that I have personal experience). 

Unfortunately, the airlock doesn't have any obvious ways to open it. Beside it, however, is a two-metre-tall manufacturing bot. Izzy slings herself towards it. She seems vaguely irritated now – with herself? – with me? – which, in a pinch, is probably better than sad.

"What are you doing?" I ask, clearing my throat.

"Waking her up. She might be able to help."

"Are you sure we can... trust it?"

"It's a robot."

"Right."

"So trust is like, irrelevant. It's like asking if you trust your toaster."

"Well, I don't," I mutter. "My toaster has cooked two decent pieces of toast in ten years."

"I think that's on you." She pins a strand of hair behind her ear.

The bot is plasticky, sculpted, smooth, similar to the back end of a particularly venomous spider. Its albino torso is wide at the top and narrow at the bottom with arms that are too long and double-jointed in all the wrong places (excellent for strangling), and legs that end in four-clawed grippers. A head would be superfluous, so it doesn't have one. A soul would be superfluous, so it doesn't have one. It's an industrial nightmare version of a human, but all things considered, a fairly routine nightmare in which the dreamer wasn't getting paid overtime.

Have I ever told you I have a problem with robots? Especially robots that look a bit like spiders?

I'm pretty sure a robot tried to kill me once. I'm not certain, but I'm _pretty sure._

Let's just say it wasn't 100% my choice to fall off Tomato Tower.

Izzy's having a great time, poking around in its chest. She takes an access cable and plugs it into a MeshPort that's embedded above her left hip.

"Eugh," I say, mostly involuntarily.

"It's the best way."

"Doesn't it feel gross?"

"It's _the best way_ , Alex."

Maybe she's right, because the robot lights up. It gives the impression of stretching, joints twitching unnaturally.

 _< Unit #551 reporting>_, it broadcasts. _< Resume existing job?>_

"Nope," Izzy says. "I'd love it if you could open this airlock."

_< Understood. Please note that a larger set of commands can be given if you are connected through a secure Mesh network. Commands outside this set will be ignored, for your safety.>_

"We'll see about that," Izzy says, ominously.

Ducted fans in the bot's torso whirr up to speed, and that's how it propels itself, limbs trailing behind it. It's not that I'm _scared_ of robots, per se, but the more organic models give me massively uncomfortable vibes. Those vibes make me tense, which makes my back hurt, and the texture of the skin between my shoulders makes me internally scream. We should've stayed together. _We should've stayed together._ Instead, Marko and Finn are in an adjacent arm half a kilometre away, and I'm stuck here in the dark with a mechanical arachnid.

_< Stand clear of the doors.>_

Yellow lights flash. The airlock grinds open.

The passageways beyond are equally dark. It's wide enough for several cargo trolleys to pass side-by-side, and magnetic rails form parallel tracks towards vanishing point. Clearly designed for bots like this one, rather than humans. It glides ahead of us, fans buzzing.

There are side passages, and occasional debris, but we ignore them.

Until Izzy says: "That's a freaking _vending machine_."

"What? Where?!"

There's a small room below us – essentially a closet – with a bench, chairs, and yes, a vending machine. My mouth fires a shotgun blast of saliva and my brain chases after the cause:

One (1) melted Neptune Bar.

Three (3) packets of Arnott's Shapes.

One (1) can of Solo Lemonade.

 _< Mesh connection unavailable>,_ the machine says. _< No purchases can be made_.>

My stomach pinches. "Oh no, you did NOT just say that."

 _< Mesh connection unavailable_. _No purchases can be made_.>

"I guess that makes sense," Izzy says. "It has to connect to a key server to make sure you're not trying to fake your ID. And if the network's down..."

"Why would I be trying to fake my ID?"

"To steal chocolate bars."

"Why would anybody need to steal – BLOODY – CHOCOLATE BARS?!" I aim a kick at the machine, and instead careen into the wall. The machine seems unscathed.

Unit #551 is suddenly in the doorway. "It is illegal to vandalise government property!" it barks. "Cease immediately!"

Those extendable limbs it has? _Very_ good for strangling.

"551? Here's a job for you," Izzy says. "Remember where the closest escape pods are? I want you to head there and open any doors along the way. Send a message if you run into other people. Or trouble. Just message me if something happens."

_< Understood.>_

Izzy pats it on the shoulder. "You're the best, 551."

I wait until it's far enough away that I can no longer hear it's buzzing, irritating fans. "What an _impeccable_ asshole."

Izzy's examining the vending machine, searching for a MeshPort to hack. "She's only doing her job, y'know."

"Okay, yes, but..." I shake my head. "I don't know whether I should be afraid or impressed."

"Afraid of what?"

"You being some kind of super-hacker."

"Oh, this? It's nothing. Just schoolwork."

"Schoolwork at like, master thief academy?"

"Hey, my high school is _perfectly normal_. They teach you all about this in the software career streams – Mesh hacking is basically like regular networking, except if the person you wanna talk to is kinda unfriendly and their house has a bunch of guard dogs and a spiky fence."

"If this is just 'regular networking', why isn't everyone hacking into vending machines all the time?"

"I mean... they are?"

"Oh." I rub my eyes tiredly. "Well, lemme know if your network needs a critical analysis of Hamlet. That's what _my_ class just covered."

"Sounds fun."

"Less than you'd think." Never got into Shakespeare; wish I could, but I just can't take that Hamlet guy seriously.

My eyes fall upon the two small chairs wedged in the corner.

_I wonder._

Experimentally, I swing one at the vending machine's window – not hard enough to connect with any force, but to check if there's enough space for this to work without accidentally killing somebody. My dad says I like punching my way through problems, which isn't true in the most literal sense, but is perhaps a good description of my general philosophy. I might not be into Shakespeare, but Thor? Batman? Those guys are _great_.

"I hope #551 didn't hear that," Izzy says. "Also, please don't – the glass'll explode everywhere and I don't wanna be stabbed."

"Then are you almost done?"

"I _am_ done. Observe!" A hatch opens and Izzy reaches inside, producing our five precious pearls of junk food. "Pretty sure this is grounds for us being kicked out of science camp—"

"Or worse: ex _pelled_."

"—so if anybody asks I was sleeping in my cabin _._ Definitely wasn't hacking into anything, OK?"

"If science camp still exists as a concept after this I'll accept full responsibility. Now hand me some effing Shapes, please. I'm starving."

The wrapper's a bastard that doesn't want to tear but finally, gloriously, I tip stale, crumbly biscuits into my mouth. Shapes are the kind of snack that becomes a permanent fixture of every six-year-old's lunchbox, and seeing them here – in this unused corner of a station orbiting _Saturn_ – makes my world slightly smaller. Yes, eating these rubbish kids' snacks makes me feel less alone. If this shitty packet of Shapes made it all the way here, maybe we can make it all the way back. A billion kilometres, give or take.

"Did you have these as a kid?" I ask.

"My style was more rice and mangoes. Why are they called Shapes?"

"Because... dude, they're _shapes_. These are barbecue flavour, so they're hexagons, but the chicken flavour are oval-shaped and the cheddar ones are rectangles."

Izzy chews thoughtfully. "You can really taste how they've been engineered for maximum flavour at minimum cost."

"Right? It's incredible. Like, I never have to try cocaine now, because it could never be as good as this seasoning."

"Alex?"

"M-hm?"

" _Please_ tell me you haven't tried snorting these."

"Not personally, nah, but I heard it's better than you'd expect." I run my finger along the inside of the packet, scooping up flavour dust. "So you're from Thailand, right?"

"Yep! I grew up there, but I started going to high school in Australia. Boarding school obviously, it's a bit far for a bus ride. My grandfather's still in Thailand so I stay with him during the holidays, and my parents – well, they're in America now. Don't see them very often."

"Oh?"

"Long story, filled with sighs. Trust me, you don't wanna hear it."

I shrug. "Remember what Lieutenant Violet says addressing the Garthan fleet in Season 3?"

"Umm... 'Die, Garthan dogs?'"

"Not that."

She clenches her fist. "'By Grabthar's Hammer, I'LL AVENGE ALL OF THE LIVES YOU STOLE?'"

"Nonono, at the start."

"Ooooohh." Izzy rolls her eyes. "' _You assume too much_.'"

"Thaaat's the one. Such a good line."

"It is, and it made me shed literal tears—"

"That callback to Season 1?" I kiss my fingers. " _Perfecto._ "

"—but _Night's Dawn_ has way better writers than my life."

"Izzy? _You assume too much._ "

"Okay, okay, you don't have to keep saying it." Her smile, while there, hovers a few inches from her face. "Feel free stop me at any point, alright?"

"You can talk until my Shapes are gone. After that, we'd better get moving."

"Roger roger." She looks at her feet; then at me, head tilted. "Real quick, our family has never been... rich? My mum's family were like, local government workers, and my dad's family owned a shop that sold second-hand stuff - plus they were _big_ families, and my grandparents on both sides had to put in lots of effort to actually send their kids to decent schools. The world's still crappy like that, sometimes. But they _did_ work hard, so my parents ended up at a tech college, and by total coincidence they both trained as body-aug technicians and that's how they met. They'd refurbish old cybernetics if the owner had died, or upgraded or whatever. Seriously, stop me if you're bored? Anyway, my parents were both really grateful that their families had supported them, so they wanted to, y'know, pass that along to me and my sisters and give us better opportunities than they'd experienced. Because they're great. Obviously."

"Like all parents. They want to give better opportunities to their children."

"Do they? I hope so. That's a nice thought. Wait, did I mention I have three sisters? Because I do. They're awesome. Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"Nope."

"That's a shame. Or maybe it's really great? _Back to the story_ — my parents heard about this new cybernetics firm promising to do all sorts of cool stuff, lower costs, expand the market, blah blah blah. They thought it was incredibly promising, and if you go read about it, it did sound _good._ The company was offering amazing deals for initial partners, so they sold... they sold a lot of what they had – this was like, when I was four years old – and they bought a significant share of this startup. _Jensen Biotech_ , it was called."

"Never heard of them."

"Turns out, there's a reason. Unfortunately Jensen were _massively_ shady, running a crazy financial redirection scheme which meant investors took on the company's debt without knowing? They _also_ got raided for IP theft, 'cause that's they were developing stuff so fast, and guess what?"

"What?"

"Jensen owed billions of dollars to... guess who?" Izzy grimaces.

One thing I absolutely detest is being expected to answer ridiculous 'guess' questions.

"Alphabet!" she says, perhaps reading something in my face. "They owed _so much_ to that megacorp, like, a crap-diculous amount. Which meant my parents – somehow completely legally? – owed millions of dollars to Alphabet. Which is and was and always will be a terrible horrible no good very bad situation."

"But if the company was misleading its investors and doing all sorts of illegal stuff, wouldn't your parents be voided of that responsibility?"

"Nope! That would be too nice. Which is my super long way of saying that for years, they've been 'members' of Alphabet's indentured servant program. That's why they're stuck in America."

Izzy folds her arms. She's probably told this story a hundred times, always having to repress the same anger and shame slowly forming around her like a stormcloud (the type of storm that planes shouldn't fly through.)

"For how long?" I ask.

" _Don't_ ask. And d'you know the worst bit? My parents did it and got into so much trouble because they wanted me and my sisters to have 'better opportunities'. But like, I'm _totally_ not worth it, haha. I _suck._ "

She'll probably punch me if I quote Lieutenant Violet again. Instead, my brain latches onto a different trope. "I get that your parents weren't legal experts, or maybe the company hid a ton of info, but... it's a _huge_ mistake to make. Did they not read the fine print? "

"I don't think there was anything they could've done." A mantra. "They worked with cybernetics. They were part of that world, they _knew_ what they were doing. Or they thought they did."

"You said you were four years old when this happened."

"So?"

"So, you've only heard their side of the story. You didn't experience it directly. What if they..." Izzy's lightning is building up; time to divert to another airport. "I'm just saying it's crazy that one mistake can make people slaves for the rest of their lives."

"Yes! It IS crazy! But that's what you get when shitty companies own half the planet!" She scrunches up her Shapes packet and throws it at the wall and I bet it feels deeply unsatisfying. It spirals away, trailing barbecue-flavoured dust.

"I'm not that familiar with indentured servitude laws, but are your parents... okay?" I ask.

"They're alive."

"Can you talk to them? Do they know you're out here?"

She points to her drone, floating in the corner. "I send videos, most days."

A blatant distraction. "Hey, which one's better: Australia or Thailand?"

"Honestly? Australia's amazing, and I love it, but I love being home a _tiny_ bit more." She sighs, smelling stale air. "Despite the crap stuff, I still have so many good memories, y'know? Swimming in the river behind our house after it rains. Climbing our neighbour's mango tree with my sisters. Being soaked by raindrops as big as your freaking head, and staying out late at the night markets, and the food! The food's unbelievable. Some of it's maybe not super healthy but it is _super_ good. Have you been?"

"Not yet."

"Then I'll invite you. Summer holidays. I'll invite everyone, group trip." Her smile's back, doing its best to stick. "I should _definitely_ stop talking 'bout myself like a jerk though. How about you? Where did you grow up?"

If Izzy thinks her story's lame, mine's probably coma-inducing. "We live on a farm, in the middle of nowhere. For outsiders it probably looks boring, or like too much hard work, but... I enjoy it, actually. I like the countryside. I like small towns. My dad'll tell you I'm the reincarnation of one of those little old Italian ladies - the ones who live up in the mountains making olive oil for a hundred years? Closest town is a place called Donnybrook, which I'll guarantee you've never heard of." 

I wonder if deep down, Izzy would prefer her life to be like mine; more typical, more routine, more _fair_. Deeper down, I think she'd hate it even more. I open our last pack of Shapes – chicken flavour – and frisbee one at her face. "Here. Catch."

She unhinges her gob like a python. The biscuit sails down her throat. "Hell. _Yes._ Are you an inter-planetary ballistic missile? Because you just blew me away with pinpoint accuracy."

"Are you Michelangelo's David? Because I could study that spectacular jaw for centuries."

"OK, true, I have a big mouth. Gimme another one."

I throw it, this time at her knees, and she spins upside-down like a breakdancer too late and it bounces off her cheek. She half-chokes on the biscuit she's already eating and I back off to avoid getting blasted by chicken-flavoured spit. 

I throw a Shape up and launch myself after it, opening my mouth to envelop it mid-flight.

World's most awkward shark.

"We are _trash_ faces," she laughs. "Oh god. You feeling better?"

I'm smiling. "Yeah, actually. Not fine, but... better."

"Awesome, but you can't just say you're _not fine_. We are _hella_ fine specimens and the world is lucky to have our beauty" She slips into her vlog voice, reading from an internal script. "' _Self-respect and self-worth are very important in today's always-online society, so the first thing you gotta do is love who you are!_ '"

"Right, aesthetically we're perfect but you know that's not what I meant. Honestly, though, there are _very_ few problems junk food can't fix. Maybe obesity?"

"A bodysculpt costs a few hundred bucks these days."

"Diabetes?"

"Medbots can dispense all the glucose you want."

"Climate change?"

"I'd laugh if that wasn't really depressing." She laughs anyway, and so do I, and for a second I'm back at school, sitting on one of the folding metal benches beside the sports oval, bullshitting with friends at recess. I'm sucking on a grape and Grace Crawford's arguing about some pro-evolution school strike and the sun feels fierce and familiar like a jackhammer on my neck and I'd rather not make myself sad.

An timer goes off in my MeshPal. "Shit! We're supposed to be at the pods by now."

"Oh, whoops. D'you wanna chug this lemonade?"

"Chug the lemonade, save the chocolate."

Izzy opens the can and gulps half of it down, then hands it to me, and it must decades out of date because it tastes like the underside of an abandoned hoverboard. We re-enter the huge, curving tunnels, launching ourselves between handholds, Izzy's drone lighting the path ahead.

A swimming pool's worth of water spills from a giant crack. It's barely moving, a couple of centimetres a second, waves breaking in distorted slow-motion. Carefully, we edge around it. Stray drops splash against my cheeks.

"I was reading up on things before I came here," Izzy says, "and I'm not that into internet conspiracies – okay, I'm pretty into internet conspiracies – but if you think about it, building a big research station near Saturn is _weird_. It's a bad investment for a country like Australia. Why not just rent space on a Chinese station, right? Do you know what I heard?"

"What?"

"Places like this are used for pulling _levers._ " She gives me a sidelong glance, as if that was supposed to mean something. "Imagine you're walking through the desert and you're starving, you're thirsty, middle of nowhere and suddenly you find a lever sticking out of a sand dune. There's nobody around. You don't know what it does. Do you pull it?"

"Um... probably?"

"Because you're curious, right? It might help you. Okay, same setup, but now the lever's being guarded by a snake: a _cobra_. This cobra's clearly been _trained_ to guard this lever. Does that make you want to pull it more, or less?"

"I'd definitely be more curious, I suppose. Dunno if I trust that snake."

Izzy paints sand dunes with a sweep of her hand. "Then what if some scientists stumbled across a theory that's like that lever in the desert – an idea to try without understanding what its effects might be. Say you pull the lever, and it starts raining. Great, right? Keep pulling it. But what if it starts raining a _lot_? What if it starts to flood? Do you keep pulling it? What if it floods so much that you could supply water to the whole world? Or even drown it? _That's_ what places like Starfish are for."

"You think they built this place to... do dangerous science experiments?"

"Not me specifically, but, other people think so." She shrugs. "And 'dangerous' is underselling it – more like 'world-ending.'"

"That's one hell of a conspiracy." I stop myself from sounding offensively skeptical. "But is a space station your best bet in that scenario? Space is a hostile environment, with limited resources, and if something _does_ go wrong you lose an entire _station._ Billions of dollars, thousands of lives."

"What if finding out what the lever does is worth more than one station? Plus, you might lose a station, but at least you don't lose the Earth. Or Mars."

In a way, the idea is appealingly chilling.

Still, unlikely.

"If they _are_ doing supervillain shit here," I say, "it makes no sense for _us_ to be invited."

"Well, they wouldn't do _only_ supervillain stuff. Someone's gotta study the new species in Saturn's atmosphere too."

We reach a junction that's highlighted on our map, signalling a left turn.

This next corridor is much thinner. Open doorways contain only blackness – the same blackness that awaits at the bottom of rickety basement staircases. The air's still quite corpse-y, for lack of a better term, tickling my throat. To distract myself, I pull out my notebook, and write ' _lever, desert, snake'_ at the bottom of the most recent page. _'Weird metaphor. Biblical? Tugging on a thread...'_

My mum's very dedicated to writing in her diary, the old-fashioned way with pen and paper. I'd fall asleep in her lap whenever she wrote before bed, and in the morning I'd wake up with smudged ink on my face.

"Why do you do that?" Izzy asks. "Writing."

"No reason, really. It's satisfying, I guess."

"Can I read your notebook?"

"Nope."

"Would you be mad if I did?"

"There's at least one shitty love poem in here, so yeah, I'd wholesale murder you."

Quickly, we approach the door at the end of the corridor. 'Evacuation Point Blue,' it says.

"There'd better be some goddamn escape pods," Izzy says.

There are no goddamn escape pods.


	10. Alex

Along the wall are twenty pod berths, cylindrical pipes a few metres wide capped by telescopic airlocks. Above each is a bright red light. The screens say: 'ALL PODS LAUNCHED.' I imagine a room full of people in panicked, disorderly lines. Their voices echo from the low ceiling, too loud to hear. Blurred faces. The stink of sweat. One after another, the pods launch: a _thwomp_ as it leaves the tube, a dull roar as its engines fire. _Thwomp. Thwomp. Thwomp._ The floor shudders.

Fewer and fewer people.

Fewer.

Until finally, it's just us.

Unit #551 is floating dormant by a blast door, limbs outstretched, powered down. The only other things of note are supply lockers, on either side of the door we entered through.

"That is _bitterly_ disappointing," I say.

"How are we supposed to get off the station then?" Izzy says. "If, if, if if if—"

"We hope that Marko and Finn are having better luck." I look again along the line of escape pods, not quite believing.

Izzy's shoulders, normally ramrod straight, slump like melted icecream. The red lighting makes us two-dimensional, an artist's impression of despair.

 _I call this painting 'Two Girls Who Thought They Were in Command of Their Destiny_.'

_'Two Girls Far From Home.'_

_'Two Girls Who Are Still Alive (But Not For Long)!'_

We were so bloody _happy_ two minutes ago.

There'll be other evac points, on other arms of the station. Maybe those will have spare pods?

I pull up the map. The route we just completed is around five centimetres long, at this scale. To get to the far side of Starfish we're talking fifteen, twenty centimetres, a ten-minute trip if the station was undamaged but in this context more like an hour. Another _hour_ of creeping through dark corridors, alternating between 100% terror and 100% self-loathing like a junkie injecting speed into one arm and horse tranquilisers into the other.

Doable?

Also dangerous, and ultimately useless.

The map flickers. I wave it away.

No use panicking until you've heard from Marko and Finn.

No use hoping till you've heard from them, either.

In my head, this was it. The hope – the _certainty_ – that there'd be one lifeboat left.

Of course there would.

Why wouldn't there be?

It's that one brick in the middle of an arch that holds the entire thing up.

The keystone, it's called.

The keystone of my control.

My chest feels tight, shallow. "Let's stick to the plan," I say aloud.

"Plan, planplanplan. Right. Security station." Izzy bobs her head. "Just... gimme a second to check on 551."

"Sure." I try not to sound too unkeen.

She glides to the robot, takes its arm, gives it an urgent poke. Its posture looks like somebody tumbling over a balcony – the mid-credits freeze frame in a Jackie Chan movie.

"Why'd it switch itself off?" I ask.

"Dunno." She starts sniffing it. Sniffing _at_ it, like a bloodhound.

"What are you doing?"

"My nose is really sensitive," she says, as if it's a proper explanation.

I make my way to the nearest pod airlock. There's some detritus scattered around the pale grey chamber – a data drive, a hull patch kit, some floating strands of hair that scare the living _shit_ out of me because at first I think they're cobwebs which is a nuclear alert for my Australian arachnophobe survival instincts.

I'm shocked at how shaken I feel (for once, not due to any eight-legged friends).

I didn't realise how much I've been holding back.

Was it a stupid choice to come here? Sure.

Am I regretting it? Sure.

Am I scared as hell? Sure.

Am I out of my depth? Incredibly.

Would any of that matter as long as we get out of here? In the long run, no.

The problem is, we might _not_ get out of here.

It threatens to crash over me like a tsunami.

"Alex, check this out." Izzy sends me a file via her MeshPal. "It's the last thing 551 recorded."

It's a video food. There's a first-person view of the hallway we came from, as the bot approaches the door to the evac chamber. It pauses, sending a command; the door slides open and it glides through. Then, suddenly, a wave of static.

It switches to a different camera. Now, from the farthest airlock comes a faint, flickering blue glow – eerie, like the highest window of a wizard's tower late at night. The bot's fans switch off, as it's having power trouble. As a failsafe it activates electrostatic grippers in its feet. The view shifts as it tries to stick to a flat surface.

More static. Still that strange glow in the airlock.

I check the other cameras, but they're the same.

The recording ends.

"You see any freaky lights in there?" Izzy calls out.

"Hmm. Not yet." 

There are windows in the airlock, and through them I can see across the top side of the station. Sunlight bounces from impact and radiation shielding, rough in some spots, smooth in others, split by deep scars where the station's skeleton has cracked. In places, a titan has ripped huge chunks from it, torn segments clean in two, exposing inner flesh with twisted, jagged force. Paint-strokes of debris lie suspended across the night, underlit by hot plasma or sparking electricity. My guess is that the hijackers hadn't finished placing their explosives – otherwise there wouldn't _be_ _any_ station left – but its state still sends a chill down my spine.

The automated repair systems must've prioritised inhabited areas. I spot mended hull near the docks, and the next clockwise arm (which are living quarters). A few hundred metres away, the hub looms dark. No lights. No repair drones. No shuttles. It appears mostly intact, by luck or design, although much that was attached – radiators, communications dishes, solar arrays – now tumbles lonely in the station's wake.

If I was a rescue shuttle, I wouldn't fancy flying through the storm of debris now surrounding us.

If I was me, I wouldn't fancy sticking around. We still have air, and heat, and structural integrity, but how much more is anybody's guess.

Close by, I see one of the station's main engines: a towering black monolith of a rocket nozzle, ten metres in diameter with a five-times-longer shadow, circled by dozens of smaller ion thrusters. The main nozzle still possesses a faint orange glow, fading as the material cools.

Fading.

The engines must've been burning then, in the not-too-distant past. We've been in zero-g since we woke; perhaps they fired while we were unconscious? That fits, since to stop the station's spin and remove gravity altogether you'd need some damn big engines. Why _would_ you want to stop it spinning, though? Gravity is generally considered pretty useful.

I stare outwards, shading my eyes from the distant sun.

In the distance – near the station hub – I swear I see something move.

Two pinpricks, one bright, one dark.

My imagination leaps to a person in a spacesuit, shining a torch.

I zoom in with my eyes, maximum magnification.

There it is again. A flicker of light, movement.

"Hey, Izzy. How good's the zoom on your drone?"

"Good enough to be technically illegal."

"As long as you're not peeking through my bathroom windows, I'll allow it. D'you reckon you could check the view out here? I saw... something. Maybe a person."

I hope it's a person.

Or maybe I don't?

Depends if they try and kill us or not. That's currently my primary qualifier for whether I'd like to meet someone, which is a good bit more pessimistic than my usual standards.

Izzy raises her drone to the window, then narrows her eyes. She disappears into the neighbouring airlock and I hear her fiddle with the control pad. "Yes, yes... authorise, authorise..."

_< Airlock 2 now opening.>_

Loud, urgent beeps, followed by a rush of air.

Izzy reappears and her drone's _outside_ the window, floating serenely above the station. "Can't send it too far," she says. "Otherwise it'll leave Mesh range and I'll lose the freaking thing." She crosses her eyes, focusing on her MeshPal readouts. "Time for an adventure, little buddy." The drone shoots off towards the hub, and instantly I've lost sight of it amid the void of space (a good sign, if we don't want to be spotted).

"I can see... yep, inside the hub," Izzy murmurs. "There's a row of big windows - an observation room or something."

"People? Good guys? Bad guys?"

"Hard to tell. I don't wanna fly any further, signal's dicey. But I can see shapes that look like people. It's dark, though. Wait. There's... light? Purple-y light, moving, like someone carrying a torch." She squints. "It's _suuuper_ grainy, with the sun pointing at us." Izzy links the feed to me and like her, I can't make out much: tinted windows, a hint of purple light spilling through them, three or four human-ish silhouettes moving in and out of view.

"I guess we aren't alone," I say.

"Maybe... maybe we head there next?"

"Hmmm."

Suddenly, I feel very self-conscious: that feeling of thinking you're alone, _acting_ like you're alone (a.k.a. being a right old slob), then realising you're very much not and your roommate's been watching you act like a weirdo for ten minutes, and subsequently being zapped by a thousand volts of crackling, wake-up-in-cold-sweat shame.

Perhaps I'm paranoid. The sensation of being watched, though, isn't going away.

Are any pieces of debris moving in odd directions? Could one of them be another drone, hunting for any pesky survivors?

"I think we should go," I say. 

"Agreed," Izzy says. "But..."

"But?"

"There's a small cargo dock about thirty metres thataway." She waves so vaguely it could be literally anywhere. "The dock is _hella_ damaged, completely open, but I saw at least one transport shuttle parked inside. Since we're close, what if we... check a look?" She frowns. "Check it out? Take a look? Ugh, second language."

"How intact was it? On a scale of, say, Elon Musk's robot avatar to Earth's climate."

"IMO, equivalent to our data privacy rights?"

"Okay, so five outta ten."

"Approximately. I don't know what shuttles are meant to look like."

I'm not a huge fan of improvising, but if this shuttle's as close as Izzy says it is, I'll gladly take one last shot at good news. Izzy pilots her drone back inside, its smooth black shell covered by a patina of ice. She blows on it gently, warming it up, a child who's found a duckling in the snow. I throw an accusatory glare at the other airlocks; the red 'launched' lights are getting on my nerves.

"So where are we going?" I ask.

Izzy points at a set of blast doors on the far side of the room. "But that dock isn't gonna have any air in it, so we'll need survival gear."

"Then we're in luck, for once." I leap to the closest supply locker. Inside are vacsuits – five total, bright red – with air tanks and a fire extinguisher and a dusty first-aid kit. Izzy and I wriggle into the suits, pulling them on over our clothes. They're initially quite loose, but after activation they become much more form-fitting, as the gas inside compresses to provide enough pressure to survive in vacuum. (In low-pressure environments, liquids boil at lower temperatures, which it bad if that liquid happens to be, say, the jelly inside your eyeballs.) There are heating/cooling elements inside the suit too, plus a _lot_ of insulation since it's roughly -200°C outside, and battery packs and air tanks that we clip onto our backs, and propellant for the suit's thrusters, and sticky gecko-gloves and boots, and finally a helmet that folds over and around my face, slotting together like a jigsaw. The whole process takes a few minutes but I want to get it right; there are always stories of people realising too late they forgot to take any oxygen. 

Izzy looks a little uncertain, and I help her zip her suit up and lock everything in place. "Done this before?"

"Noooope," she replies. "You?"

"Once. So, I'm basically an expert."

She grins. "I feel like an anime character."

"Any second now we'll be called upon to pilot a couple of giant mechs."

I brush off her shoulders. Her hair waves like seaweed behind her visor.

The suits are light, and flexible, and don't impede our movements.

The same can't be said of the blast doors, which are both extremely thick and extremely locked.

"Problem," I murmur.

"Problem," Izzy agrees.

"Can you, uh, hack it open?"

"Given enough time, maybe. The station Mesh really doesn't want people messing with it."

"Which is reasonable, if there's a vacuum on the other side."

"What about that duct?" She points to a vent in the wall. It's barely large enough for a cat.

"I'd rather not. You might make it, but I'd get stuck for sure. Which'd be funny for two minutes, but not a great time overall."

"Then... are we done?"

She looks at me.

I look at her. Hands on hips, legs askew, she's the perfect image of pig-headed determination: that brash Hermione Grainger confidence that drives a freight train through anything in its way. (In principle, I like Hermione, but I probably wouldn't have been friends with her in real life.)

It reminds me of my mum, too.

Mum, who never lets anything bring her down, who always gets her way.

Mum, busy with the harvest, who has no idea this is happening. (She might, in a few hours, once the news reaches Earth.)

A lovely idea pops into my head, and part of me wants to lock it back in the Pandora's Box that spawned it, while another part – the stubborn, annoying part that's worse than my bloody mother – clutches tight and won't let go.

"We could go round," I say.

"Go around? You mean— hey!" Suspicion drips from Izzy's brow. "Hey hey hey, an hour ago you got mad at me for suggesting the _exact_ same thing."

"You were discussing crossing the entire station. This is what, thirty metres? That's achievable."

"Uh-huh," she says skeptically.

"Do you want to or not?" I ask, before my sensible parts catch up.

She takes a breath, consciously resetting. "I mean, if you think it's... if you think we can?"

"The last time I did this, it was for inter-school Echo Arena game and I vomited into my helmet. The time before that, it was a safety drill on an interplanetary cruise and I was five years old. My opinion's roughly as valid as a panda's."

"Okay, then let's do it. Can't be that hard."

She spreads her arms. She smiles.

I smile back.

My face is made of cake frosting.

Bad ideas, Alex.

Bad ideas for good reasons.

It's okay to back out.

It's okay to _not_ back out, too. Isn't life confusing?

Together, we glide to the closest airlock. Sunlight glints from our visors. I clench and unclench my gloves, feeling the material stretch and fold.

"D'you know where your thruster controls are?" I ask.

"Yep."

"Don't touch them. If you're disoriented, it'll just make things worse. Worst case scenario, link your MeshPal with the suit computer and get an autopilot going. The idea is never to leave the structure – we'll pull ourselves along the surface, using our gloves. Sound reasonable?"

"Perf," Izzy says.

"Well... good. You know how to work the airlock." 

I plant my feet, give the air a couple punches.

Let's do it.

Uppercut.

You'll be fine.

Left hook.

Let's _do_ it, Alex.

High kick—

Ooh, too high! I think I've hurt my groin.

Izzy waves happily to her camera drone. "Heeeeey, my lovely followers! Just a quick update to say that hey, if I die, I've really enjoyed talking to you, and interacting with you, and getting to know you guys. It's been a blast! And I hope you can really take what I said to heart, and be _yourselves_. Be happy with yourselves, y'know? I know I am. Okay, bye now! Hope I don't die."

"Not gonna record a message for your parents?" I ask.

"Nah, that's just _begging_ the universe to kill me. A death message for my blog is simply good content."

She presses a yellow screen that says 'zero pressure.' Air flees the chamber, the rhythm of the station growing quieter and quieter until all that's left is my breath bouncing around my helmet.

The cylindrical end of the chamber irises apart, revealing flawless, abyssal blackness.

Paradoxically, it's quite atmospheric.

Izzy's eyes are suddenly as wide as chicken-flavoured Shapes.

I tilt my head to the exit. "Ready?"

"Yes! I'm _ready!_ " The voice of a god inside my skull. I turn down the radio volume.

I shake my head, then shake it again, and fuck it, I grip one of the handrails by the exit and swing myself out onto the surface of Starfish Station.

* * *

We're mountaineers, cresting a snowy ridge.

The silver-white polymer is rough, blinding. Ahead, it rises towards the hub but on either side it falls away, a steeper and steeper curve, vertigo-inducing. If I lose my grip, I'm convinced I'll roll off the edge and plummet for days towards Saturn's murky depths. Even though the station is between us and planet, it's big enough that I can see its edges in my periphery; a yellow sea, calm, implacable, threatening to swallow whomever stares at it too long.

We're ants.

Bacteria.

Dust.

Atoms.

I glance over my shoulder. Izzy's a couple of metres behind, jaw clenched, _hard_. For a second I forget which direction's down and I snap my eyes shut and think of nothing. 

I'm sweating inside the suit. 

I'd like to see Jack and Jill and their inane hill cope with this bullshit.

Deep breaths. Slow breaths. Staying low helps. My stomach scrapes against rippled shielding, muffled through my suit. The shuttle bay is a cancerous lump ahead, torn support beams and melted plastic clawing at the void. Metallic shards tumble nearby with dreamy, deceptive slowness, which I'd rather avoid since I don't want to become too intimate with any pointy bits of metal. While there aren't official handholds, there are enough gaps and wrinkles and bits sticking out that I can pull myself along without too many ridiculous contortions.

I focus on the next handhold – a small antenna.

A pipe between two radiators.

A hole in the plating which gives worryingly beneath my gloves. 

"Did I ever tell you I was in a seventh grade punk band?" I say suddenly.

"You haven't, no," Izzy says.

"I bring this up because one of our songs was called 'Saturn's Silence'."

I listen.

Saturn's silence.

It hangs like a painting.

"Accurate title," Izzy says.

"As it turns out. Well, I say I was in a band. Technically I hung around people's bedrooms writing angsty lyrics for them. I was in the, uh, periphery of a band."

"Sittin' in the corner being _incredibly_ judgey, I bet. Okay, lemme guess – I can't imagine you joining a band for the music, so I bet you had a massive crush on the lead singer. Or maybe one of the emo dudes who played bass."

"A mild crush. A _mild_ one. And he had a tail, which I was kinda into."

"Say no more, say no more."

"Wasn't going to."

"Say no more."

"Wasn't going to."

Sometimes, I wonder what happened to Trent. He ended up moving to another school, but even before that he was turning into a mild dickhead, the unfortunate progress of bullied becoming bully. Still, can you ever say you've truly lived if you've never been part of a seventh grade punk band (or at the very least a lunch-break breakdancing crew)? The answer is no; no, you cannot. Mum _hated_ that six-month phase with the passion of a thousand suns, while dad, for some reason, wanted to help us record an album. Now that I think about it, he probably wanted blackmail material.

The voice channel crackles. My fingers ache. I move a hand free to stretch, then the other. I don't _need_ to hang on so tightly, although if the station was spinning it'd be a different story.

Ahead, the shuttle bay doors have been punched aside, creating a hole at least twenty metres across. The edges are melted, twisted, white material and pale blue paint dripping together like a fist chucked through a mildly burnt wedding cake.

I scale the tattered shielding until I can peer into the bay proper. 

It's an expansive crescent: big enough for three cargo shuttles side-by-side with their tails pointing towards the centre. Two of the landing pads are for loading and unloading, stacked high with pallets, while the other's probably for maintenance with a selection of rail-mounted robotic manipulators. Sunlight throws harsh, jagged shadows, the contrast between light and dark making me squint. One shuttle – which Izzy spotted – looks mostly intact, its belly blackened by flames. Another shuttle no longer has engines, a giant bite taken out of its back third, severed fuel lines dangling like tentacles. 

The good shuttle's attached to the bay by one feeble docking arm, so accessing it will require some creativity. The damaged shuttle's closer; we'll have to go past it.

"D'you think we can make it?" Izzy asks. "I think we can. I think we can." Her breathing's fast and loud through my speakers.

Then, her breathing stops.

"They're dead," she says.

On the closest empty landing pad are three human figures. No vacsuits, just uniforms. Their skin's purple, bruised, swollen. Lying on their backs.

They're dead.

Extra dead.

We're close enough to know for sure, but far enough that I can't see many details.

I'm glad for that. I can pretend they're something else.

"Can't do anything for 'em," I mutter. "Let's get to the shuttle."

"Okay. Okay."

Izzy cracks her neck, rolls her shoulders.

No more running.

It'll be easier if we can push off a flat surface, so I start awkwardly Spider-manning myself down the wall to where things are a bit less cluttered—

" _Shit!"_

I freeze. Jerk myself into cover.

"What is it?" Izzy asks.

"They aren't all dead!"

Four figures in steel-grey vacsuits emerge from beneath the damaged shuttle. They're the same suits the hijackers were wearing before they blew the station up, armoured, angular, rifles slung across shoulders, glinting in the sunlight, then passing into shadow as their owners duck beneath bulkheads.

_Shit. Shit shit shit._

Do they know we're here?

I glance back to the escape pods.

"Can you hack into their channel?" I ask.

"That isn't easy. Maybe if... let's try this." She sends a command to her drone and it dives into the docking bay, sticking to the shadows. Moments later, she patches a signal into our voice feed: muffled, but audible, like speaking on the other side of a brick wall. I think the drone's picking up vibrations.

"— _set more charges. We have to make sure that nothing can be recovered. NOTHING. If we leave anything behind, they'll continue the project and who knows how long it'll be until we become part of it."_

_"How much time do we have? Before containment goes down?"_

A third voice, seared into my memory: _"Hours. Let's sweep the area quickly."_

_"Will do, chief. Gotta keep an eye out for rescue ships too, although I think Maritime's keepin' 'em back for now—"_

The signal becomes inaudible

"It's that kid," Izzy whispers. "That lanky dickhead who tried to frickin' trick us."

Something about the voice, the guns, the memory; it slices me in two.

I want to go home.

My arms shiver like a sickly lamb's.

Back hurts.

Head hurts.

"What should we do?" Izzy asks.

I _need_ to go home. I don't care how.

They shoot me, again and again, and again, and I fall, and this time, I don't get up.

"Alex? I think we should go back."

My clenched fist feels hot and cold and shivery, a concrete tower propped up by balsa wood. "We're getting on that shuttle," I grunt.

"But those people are—"

"I don't want them stealing it, or smashing it, or pissing all over it before we can fly it away ourselves."

"Right, OK, but they tried to _kill us_ ," Izzy says, wringing her hands. "I'm not sure it's a great idea to waltz in without preparing. Can't we wait?"

"Izzy, this is the only _working vehicle_ we've seen. This might be our chance, our _only_ chance."

"Still... I'd rather not die." She swallows.

The shivers are taking over me. I wish she could understand. I want her to understand. Like her, I want to run but this is _how_. "I don't get it. This entire time _you_ ' _ve_ been the one jumping ahead, and taking risks, and blowing everyone up but as soon as we might be able to escape you suddenly think it's dangerous? Why? Do you actually want to fuck this up _more_ than you have already?"

Her eyes widen. "You _do_ think it's my fault!"

"Wait— I didn't mean—"

"What the _hell,_ Alex. Ugh."

I shiver, and shiver, until I can move again. Hot, cold, hot, cold. Still that same headache.

"I... want to go home, alright? I just really want to go home. I'm sorry." My voice cracks wetly. Damn it, Alex, it's not a funeral. Get it together.

Izzy glares, then looks away.

My mouth tastes of regret and the skin I've bitten off my cheek.

"Let's go," I say, stabbing awkwardness in the face.

"What?"

"Let's _go!_ Or wait here, I don't mind." 

"I am NOT sitting around to watch you get captured—"

"Then come on!" I grab her hand and we push off the wreckage, towards the top of the damaged transport. 

We sail across the bay, arrow-straight, the transport's wedge-shaped hull approaching slow, then fast. I look down, hoping that I won't see a visored face peering up or a sapphire burst of gunfire - but no, we slam into the hull, scrabbling for purchase, which _would_ be achingly loud but it turns out that in space no one can hear you do much of anything, let alone scream. I listen for shouts of alarm I'd never hear.

I think we're safe.

We crab-walk across the hull, over an airlock, through a cloud of what I think is vaporised ship fuel. It blurs our vision, clings like mist. The next shuttle's close, now, one more big leap across the middle of the dock. Izzy steadies herself and—

"Wait! Wait." I grab her wrist, pointing underneath the transport.

There's a figure, directly below. Behind them is a hatch in the floor, cut out with a plasma torch. I suppose that's how they got in.

"Give it a second," I murmur.

Izzy nods.

It's fine.

You have time. How _much_ is an open question, but for now...

Seconds pass.

The figure turns, facing away from our destination.

We jump.

For an instant, we're silhouetted against the sun.

For an instant, we're easy targets.

The instant passes.

We land, swinging out of sight as quick as we can, lying flat behind one of the shuttle's bulbous engines. I wonder if my suit has inbuilt waste recycling because I really need to pee from the adrenaline but I also really need a drink. One of the shuttle's rear doors lies a couple of metres beneath us and we wriggle over to it, out of the sunlight.

Izzy swipes at the door controls, but nothing happens.

"Locked?" I whisper.

"Nope, there's no power."

"Can you hack it?"

"Alex, it's dead. You can't hack a corpse."

I stare at the doors: composite sheets with indented handles.

I grab the handles and pull.

I freaking _pull_.

I feel the doors shift a little. They're locked, but not _that_ locked.

Izzy grabs a short metal pole, a metre long.

I grab the doors again and start to pull, and pull, and pull, until the muscles in my shoulders feel like they're starting to tear... but Izzy jams the pole in the opening I've created. She props her legs against the shuttle, levers it open further. There's soon enough room to jam my toes in, then a foot, then a leg, then myself and I use my whole body to force the doors as far apart as I can. Whatever's holding them closed isn't giving up easily, but this is my shuttle, _mine_ and my head pounds and I've made enough space for Izzy to squeeze inside. I feel her crawl under my legs.

"Yagoo?" I grunt.

"I'm good!"

I start wriggling through, trying not let the doors go too early.

It happens anyway.

"AAEAAAEAEOOWWWW!"

My hands slip and they slam shut on my goddamn calf and if it wasn't for the vacsuit I'd have three quarters of a leg. Izzy rushes forwards, shrieking nearly as loud as I did and together we get the doors open enough for me to tug myself to safety.

_Bang!_

For a second I see nothing but white, the spray from a calving glacier. I think I just consumed about five Shapes packets of energy. My MeshPal's warning me about sudden exertions and the importance of stretching before a workout, but you know what, friend? Buddy? Pal? If I'd had time I _would've_ stretched and my arms would feel much better, thanks.

But, we're inside the shuttle.

It's dark.

Evacuated.

"Which way's the front?" Izzy asks.

"Left, I think."

In grainy MeshVision, every corridor looks the same: low, cramped, lined with storage lockers or crew bunks. Before long I'm hyper-aware of the silence, the stillness, my breathing, the sweat dripping from my nose. Is anybody in here? Would people be hiding? There were bodies outside, but maybe some survived...

Too many corners.

Too many places for imagination to hide.

The cockpit, when we reach it, is cramped, utilitarian, every surface angled to give the impression of forward motion: a pair of padded chairs, control panels, holographic displays, oxygen tanks, four triangular windows.

There's a problem, though.

It's been shot to pieces. The consoles, the seats, the plastic bulkheads, everything's scarred by streaky impacts, a nightmarish dot-to-dot drawing. I kneel, touching an empty cartridge on the floor.

"I don't think we're flying this poor girl anywhere," Izzy says.

"Even if the controls are dead, there could be an autopilot we could activate—"

"Maybe. I wanna go home too. But... we gotta be realistic. This looks super grim."

There's blood on the windows, a fine red spray, and I don't want to imagine the sequence of events that birthed it. Izzy grabs a datapad floating by one of the seats, turns it on, its faint orange glow bathing her visor. In the shadows, her red suit makes her a demon.

Through the right-most window, I see Saturn.

Through the left-most window, I spot a hijacker, creeping around a cargo pallet.

I don't think we're visible, but I stay low, just in case.

Izzy shows me the datapad. "What do you think this means?"

There's text on it, a _lot_ of text. I skim some headings.

_Illumination Portal Development._

_Risk Assessment._

_Tachyon Containment._

_Preliminary Studies (NOT FOR PUBLICATION)._

"If you look at who it's addressed to," she says, "there are the names of like, twenty journalists and MeshFeeds. I think somebody was trying to get this info off the station. They were trying to escape. But they got caught."

I glance at the bloody windows.

Then at Izzy. 

"We might've stumbled onto something here," she says.

I sigh. "We've stumbled into many things and they're all completely terrible. This was supposed to be an effing _holiday_. It's the _holidays,_ Izzy."

"Hey, I wanted to get, like, a future _job_ out of this. Still might, I guess? 'Escaped from an exploding space station' is in _credible_ job interview material." She shrugs. "Aren't you happy, in a way? If you do end up writing about this trip you've got a frickin' insane story to work with."

"Happy? Ehhh."

"Silver lining, Alex. Silver lining."

I envy her perspective.

I don't envy _her_. I don't need that undercurrent of ambition dragging me every which way, spending constant effort to push my bouncy, happy self to the surface so everyone can see all the sweet waves I'm catching.

I like being a grump, I guess.

Treading water.

Makes life easy.

But I'm starting to form a picture as to why this happened, and it begins with Izzy's desert-snake conspiracy:

1) Researchers on Starfish start doing weird experiments.

2) News leaks out.

3) Mysterious faction disagrees _so much_ that they decide blowing up the station and possibly everybody on board is acceptable collateral.

4) Due to cosmically bad luck, a group of high school students gets trapped in the middle.

And that person I'm watching, creeping around behind the cargo pallets?

I think they're actually _hiding_ from the hijackers. They haven't got a gun and their suit's red and white, like ours; the biggest giveaway is that they look completely terrified.

I wave from the window.

"Alex, what are _hell_ are you—"

"It's a friendly! Look!"

I wave, and wave but Red-Suit doesn't see. They crouch, peeking gingerly around a trolley.

There aren't many ways out of this room. The way we came in, the hatch the hijackers cut through... every other exit's locked down tight.

Then it doesn't matter. One of the hijackers darts from the shadows, weapon raised. The friendly freezes. Raises their hands.

"Crap," Izzy whispers.

After a few confused gestures, they gets marched into the open, onto the landing pad with the three dead bodies.

The soldier raises their rifle, slams the butt into Red's back. They buckle forwards, arms out, only their gecko-boots keeping them standing. Another hit sends them to the floor.

The three other soldiers keep their distance, one speaking into a small black transmitter. Red's shoulder's heave as they gasp for breath. Shadows are lengthening as the station hurtles along its orbit; soon, we'll be on Saturn's nightside.

"I wish we could help," Izzy says.

"I can't see how we can – not without ending up the same," I say grimly. "I guess this answers the 'where is everyone' question. They've been rounded up, taken prisoner."

"I wonder how many terrorists there are... there must be loads to capture everyone."

Then, rising from the floor of the landing pad, I see a dim blue glow – the kind of glow that Christmas lights make. It's insubstantial, flickering, hovering above the dead bodies at the landing pad's edge. None of the hijackers have noticed it yet, even as azure highlights dance along the backs of their helmets.

Red notices, though. Frantically, they try to stand.

The light descends towards the bodies. Suddenly— the world seems to shift. Space wobbles, as if it's been hit by a hammer. A migraine spikes through my skull. 

Aquamarine shimmers start rising from the floor.

An aurora in reverse.

Izzy's datapad flickers, goes blank. My suit readouts glitch. Breath fogs the inside of my visor, our faces pressed against the bloodstained windows.

There are shapes in the light, is what part of me is saying – the part that tries to spot dragons in cirrus cloud. I think I see a hand, a datapad, a shattered bulkhead.

"What the _fuck_ ," Izzy whispers.

One of the hijackers turns.

I realise I haven't blinked. When I do, I nearly jump out of my skin.

In the blackness – the blackness inside my head – is a wondrous, ghostly landscape: the station, the landing pad, the shuttle's cockpit, drawn in neon blue, pouring from the bodies. The artist is a waterfall, a foaming torrent of sadness and denial and grief that feels like ocean spray on the wrinkles of my brain. If distance means anything it's a few metres across, stretching and splitting into sobbing tributaries that vibrate like guitar strings, the grey-blue sheen of a lake in winter. 

In reality – in the sense of seeing is believing – it's merely a fleeting blue haze.

Izzy's seen it too, and she's bloody speechless.

I tell my MeshPal to start recording.

Who knows what it'll actually see.

The hijackers have seen it too, now, and they're shouting at each other, and backing away, and one raises their rifle and— shoots.

The haze dims as a helical beam slices through it.

Then it flares. Brighter, brighter, painfully bright until it _spears_ forwards and slams through the suit that shot it. There's no impact, no solidity but still the figure stumbles back. Space ripples, a mirage.

The light hovers.

The suit crumples.

The other guards start firing.

I close my eyes. The waterfall's a flood. Furious sapphire whips sweep the landing pad, criss-crossed with panicked laser beams, one of which slashes across our cockpit window. I duck, but it doesn't break. The light lances through another guard's suit and an instant later they're limp. They tumble into a railing, floating away. In my head, I see the waterfall reach into the dark, and pull.

Piercing red sirens blaze across the dock.

< _Debris alarm >_, my suit barks. < _Please cease all EVA activity. Impact expected within two minutes. >_

"Shit!" I shout.

"What? What does it mean?"

"Debris cloud, don't know where from, but it's hitting the station and we need to be in cover!" I look up. We _would_ be in cover if the dock was still intact, but now I'm just staring at open space.

Red-Suit has recovered, darting free. They use their thrusters to jet towards the open hatch under the transport. The remaining hijackers don't care. Red reaches the hatch, dives through.

The guards notice. They start to follow.

"Should we move?" Izzy asks.

"I'm not sure... maybe the shuttle's enough? The chance of a direct hit is pretty small—"

< _Debris alarm. Impact expected in ten seconds. Direction: station north. Station is taking evasive action. >_

"Whatever happened to two minutes?!"

Gravity returns as the station's main engines roar to life. Izzy and I are slammed against the cockpit roof, bouncing on the glass. One of the fleeing guards is caught by surprise and starts falling into space, the floor now the ceiling but the blue haze doesn't care and stretches across the dock so fast my eyes can barely keep up and spears them through the head. For a second I think it'll come for us too but at the last instant it turns away.

< _Impact in five seconds. >_

Izzy whirls, then crouches in the corner, arms over her head.

The last guard disappears inside the hatch. The light pursues. I can feel distant thumps through my feet – gunfire, amid the shuddering acceleration of the station.

< _Impact._ >

Blink.

Twin holes appear in the damaged cargo transport. It twists on its supports. Puffs of wreckage burst outward, falling away.

Blink.

A hole in the landing pad outside.

Blink.

A cockpit window shatters.

Plastic launches past my face.

Izzy screams and there's a coin-sized hold in the floor above her head and the window next to her is completely gone and suddenly there's a giant plastic shard sticking out of my calf.

I stare.

Blood spirals into vacuum.

I don't feel any pain, but—

"OWWWWWW! Fuck shit fuck shit fuck— MeshPal! MESHPAL!"

It's like somebody's stabbed a red hot knife right into my goddamn soul, which I suppose is almost true, and the slightest involuntarily muscle twitch sends new spasms of pain through my leg which makes me twitch more and clutch my thigh so hard it bruises and I don't know how long I sit there cursing and spitting until blessed, icy coolness spreads throughout my body.

< _You have a leg puncture. Do not move the injured limb. Emergency services are being contacted. >_

"Thanks, friend! Which... bloody... EMERGENCY SERVICES?!"

I don't want to touch my leg, don't want to see it, so I lie back against the bulkhead staring at the floor above. It hurts. Everything hurts.

< _Debris field has passed. >_

Izzy gapes at me. "Alex!"

"Yeah?"

"There's a spear! Sticking out of your leg!"

"M-hm."

"Does it hurt? Are you okay?"

"Fucking _guess_ , Izzy." I shut my eyes for a second, willing myself to stay perfectly still. "Is there a first-aid kit around here?"

"Um – I don't know? I haven't seen one—"

"Go check. Please."

She swings herself out of the cockpit.

The station's stopped manoeuvring. We're back in zero-g.

Time to look, I suppose.

My suit has tried to seal itself around the awfulness, to keep my body under pressure. Said awfulness is a shard of plastic fifteen centimetres long and maybe a centimetre thick. About half of it is inside me.

Could be worse, I s'pose.

"I found one!" Izzy presents a red box.

"Good. Great. You're going to need to bring me back inside the station... someplace with air. Back to the escape pods, probably."

"Right. Right. That's... a long way?" She's focused on my face, determined to avoid any blood.

"Sorry." I shrug, wish I hadn't. "Ow!" My MeshPal takes this as an invitation to pump more drugs into me. My thoughts are growing fuzzy.

"Izzy?"

"Yeah?"

I'm a planet, flying through space.

Light. Huge. Nothing but air.

"I think... I think I'm going to black..."

...out.


	11. Alex

I'm elsewhere.

A circular room – brightly lit, for a change. My leg still looks like a serial killer's art installation, but my visor's up and I'm breathing air (so far, a definite improvement). The walls are covered in screens, and the room's filled with partitioned desks and workstations.

Izzy's on a chair in the corner, deep in thought.

I cough. "Hey."

"Oh! Hey." She crawls towards me. "So, I've been reading a bit about how to deal with stab victims – I have some MeshDumps about, y'know, medical survival stuff... I s'pose in case of situations like this, but Alex, Alex, I don't know if I can actually take that thing out and clean everything up and stop you from dying and I don't wanna accidentally—"

"Izzy, don't stress. My medbots will handle 90% of it and I'll walk you through the rest. I've done plenty of first-aid courses."

"You... have?"

"Got a habit of breaking things, it turns out. Arms. Fingers. Collarbone. And hearts, obviously."

"Thank god." She sags with relief.

I notice a few objects on the floor beside her. "Did you stop by Target on the way, or something?"

"Oh, that plasma torch is how they cut through the hatch – the terrorists. And I stole one of their comm radios – I figured they weren't using it anymore." She catches my look. "It took like, ten seconds. Wasn't even a detour."

"Is that... dangerous?"

"As in, will they know we're listening? They'll know our radio's active, but they won't know it's us. Or where we are. Probably."

"I'm liking the word 'probably' less and less."

"Very probably. Almost definitely." She gives it a pat. "Plus, it'll be extra useful if we can listen in on the bad guys. I, uh... I didn't want to take you _all_ the way back outside again, especially dragging you on my own, so I sort of went through the hatch the terrorists used and got inside that way. I haven't seen anybody, so no need to freak out – no glowing-devil-beasts either. It's been chill."

"Okay, well..." I glance at the doors, of which there are four, all closed. "Let's be quick. First you're gonna have to pull this spike outta my leg."

"Hold up – you promised I wouldn't have to do much! You promised!"

"Izzy, just pull it out."

"I—"

"Izzy!"

"Fine! Fine."

"Grip it with one hand, tight, and pull. Straight out."

"Okay." She leans over my leg, simultaneously staring and not staring. Her hand shakes like a spring.

"Not a fan of blood?" I ask.

"NO!"

"Better hurry then. Grip, and pull."

I brace.

She grabs the shard. Yanks it out.

"OW! BALLS! FUCK YOU!" The shard spirals away, trailing blood – lots of it, pooling around the hole in my suit and jeans and leg, slick, shiny, black. "Izzy. Izzy. Take off my pants."

"What?"

"Take of my goddamn pants! I don't want a bunch of denim stuck inside me! Unless that's fashionable! Is denim skin fashionable now!? You seem like a person who'd know!" I'm trying not to yell.

"No, I—"

"Pants! Off! Help!"

I grit my teeth as I wriggle out of my vacsuit, ignoring the bleeding as my medbots do their best to stem it. At least the pain is slightly below excruciating, hovering just above 'banging your shins into a coffee table in the dark'. Vacsuit's off, and I unbutton my jeans – my favourite pair of jeans, by the way, which I'll probably never want to wear again after this – and help Izzy slide them off.

Now I can truly _see_ the wound, in all its majesty.

Nuh-uh.

Don't like this.

"First-aid kit. Pass me that – that thing with the nozzle."

"This one?"

"Yep."

She holds it out, eyes wide. "Nice legs."

"You aren't even looking." I grab the tool, shining it on the crater in my calf. There's an arc-light that vaporises non-biological detritus, plus a tiny vacuum that sucks up any goo and contamination. Raw flesh – and its absence – grins up at me. The next tool is a disinfector, which foams and bubbles. It stings viciously through the anaesthetic. Izzy bites her lip, half-way to vomit-town. I think I'm in shock.

Our stolen radio speaks. " _Team Five, come in. Team Five, come in. This is Maritime. I need an update."_

"Izzy?" I grunt.

"Yeah?"

_"Team Five reporting."_

"I should be good."

"Okay. Okay, just – call out if you need me."

_"Thank you. Team Five, any word from Khorin? He was due to meet you at the Hub – correct? The tachyon shield is almost down. Fifteen percent power, as per Alisa."_

I suck out the disinfectant and spray on some SynthFlesh, which provides structure and raw materials for natural healing. It blends with my skin, covering the wound with glue-like quick-setting... flesh-stuff? I wipe it down. Almost done.

" _Negative from Khorin. Nothing since we encountered that debris field. Last I heard, they'd found one asset and were bringing her up for processing... Huh, that's unusual. One of his team's commlinks is still actively receiving. You notice that?"_

Last is a HealPatch, which I wrap around like a bandage. The first-aid kit contains a few extra medbot capsules; I swallow one, grab my jeans and wriggle them back on.

_"Yes, I'm seeing that too. If they ran into issues, we might have an outsider listening in on this line. I'm going to ask everyone to reauthenticate, code fifteen. Disconnecting."_

The radio stops.

Izzy shakes it a few times.

"They figured it out," she says.

"Oh?"

"Those dicks figured it out." She chucks the radio across the room, with more resignation than venom. "But, hey, I guess you're okay, sort of! Which is awesome. Wanna get going? Can you... walk?"

"Dunno, but I sure can float."

"I checked the route while you were sleeping – and I'm incredibly bad with maps so don't, like, trust me – but there shouldn't be any mountains between us and the security station. We can take an elevator for most of it. Isn't that great?"

"Glorious. Marvellous. Amazeballs." I shake my head, still slightly fuzzy. "I AM wondering though... why do I get all the bad luck? Because these past couple of hours? _Lotta_ bad luck. Shot, stabbed – I don't see anybody else getting stabbed."

"That's true. And it sucks. But we made it though, didn't we? Through all that... crap." She waves her arms. "Explosions, debris fields, terrorists, monsters... we _did_ it! Isn't that crazy?" She laughs, and I laugh, barely able to stand, and for a second I sort of want to hug her.

"Yeah, we did."

She gifts me with a smile of surprising sincerity. "I'm just glad you're okay."

Inside my head, her face switches to those of the bodies.

Suffocating. Frozen. Grinning, even in death.

...Kei.

Every time I think of Kei, and how crappy I am for thinking _I've_ had bad luck, the ground falls out from under me. Like the station's manoeuvring us between life and death.

Deal with it, Alex. You're alive, so deal with it.

I smile back. "Me too."

* * *

"So," Izzy says, as we wait for the elevator.

"So."

"What about that monster? Because that _was_ a monster, right? That murdered those people?"

I sigh. "Do you mind if we don't talk about that _right_ now? Until we meet up with Marko and Finn? I don't think I can handle... my head feels messed up."

"Maybe it's 'cause you're dreaming."

Can't help the spark of hope in my heart. "Are we?"

"Nah." Izzy pinches herself. "Don't think so."

"Sucks."

"Suuuuucks." She smiles at nothing, fidgeting, pulling at her gloves. "I just wanna _do_ something, y'know? Figure out what's going on. Because weird stuff is happening here. Really weird. _Important_ weird."

The elevator arrives. I don't like putting weight on my calf, and I brace myself as it accelerates towards the hub. The painkillers are really hitting me but I'm _aware_ they're hitting me, so I guess I'm still relatively coherent. 

"Okay, question time: what's the first thing you're gonna do once you get home?" Izzy asks.

I don't know if my imagination can stretch that far. "Sleep, probably. Say hi to my dog. Maybe write that book I keep saying I'll write."

"Is that one of your dreams?"

"I – I don't know. I've always liked the idea of telling stories. It probably sounds... frivolous, but stories can do a lot. Make people happy. Make people sad. Make them change."

"Aww, that's nice," Izzy says, managing not to sound sarcastic. "You just gotta... picture that in your head." She holds her hands out in front of her, parallel lines. "Picture it, and the steps you have to take. If you believe in it, it'll happen."

"I haven't planned that far, to be honest."

"Then you'd better start! We're graduating soon."

"We're graduating in a _year_... Okay, it's pretty soon."

"Uh-huh." She grins. "It's nice, having a plan. I'd recommend it. Gives you direction."

The elevator stops.

We continue along the hallway outside. It looks like the cleaner half of my parents' garden shed – a repair workshop, perhaps.

I imagine holding a book that I've written.

I imagine a kid finding in the library. A young girl, like I was.

I imagine her taking it home, and staying up late to finish it.

I imagine her thinking about the ending sometimes, when she's older, reliving echoes of those same emotions.

Sadness; the memorable ones are always sad.

(Or happiness, if it's a happy story.)

I imagine standing in front of a whole room of people, holding that book, and telling them... what? What it means? What I meant by it?

I imagine going to university.

I imagine sitting in a lecture hall, learning about... something.

New friends. New faces.

The future.

Hollow. Indistinct.

Doesn't matter, does it. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and they both faded into the undergrowth.

I just want to go home. I want to go back to the things I like, and my life, and forgetting about shattered domes and human freedom protests and resource crises across the solar system. I want to forget about _this_.

The thing is, I'm _happy_ with who I am. I _like_ my life.

Things work out. They always do.

I've taken out my notebook without realising. On the second-last page, I've scrawled:

I put the pen away, fingers aching. "Izzy?"

"Yep?"

"What's your dream?"

"Oh, I hope we get back in time for my Oculus internship."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why? Because it's important. It's" – she taps her nose – "part of the plan."

That's not really what I meant. It's clear Izzy's dedicated, but I want to know what for.

I'm not in the mood to ask.

She touches my shoulder, reading my mind. "Earlier, when I said you have to visualise what you want... do you know what I see? My parents. I picture them. My parents, and my grandparents. That's it. Simple, right? But it works!"

Still.

It doesn't really answer the question.

Or maybe it does. When Izzy sees her future, maybe she sees _more_ ; the idea of being better than her past. Better, at the expense of everything else.

And me?

I paint a picture in my head: a perfect picture, surrounded by dark, choppy sea. The farm. The dome. The towers. Our house. Red dust, swept up by wind, stinging my eyes, making my fingers leave smudges on my bathroom mirror. The smell of lightning, the sound of rain rat-tat-tatting on the gravel under of my bike, the electric exhilaration of knowing I shouldn't be outside and the safety of knowing I've done it a hundred times before.

I reach for the picture.

It solidifies.

A beautiful sculpture.

But here, in all its glory, is the security station we were supposed to meet at.

Locked, of course. No one's home.

"The others must be running late too," Izzy says.

"Are they in Mesh range?" I ask.

"Nope! The station really mucks up the signal."

Next to the door is a bio-signature security scanner; I give it a shot, mainly for laughs. It scans my face, and my body, then gives off a disappointed beep.

I look up and down the hallway. No hijackers. No monsters. Only stillness, silence, recycled air with a hint of acrid smoke. The corridor curves away from us in either direction, towards the manufacturing arm to the right or the administration arm to the left.

Then – alarmingly – the screen below the scanner blinks on.

It's blank, at first.

Then a face appears on it.

A woman.

" _Hello_ ," she says.

I wonder if she can see me. "...Hello?"

" _Yes, yes. Hello. Please listen. My name is Jira. I'll unlock the door for you._ "

A soft click.

Door slides upward.

Izzy frowns at me, then at the screen, then at me again.

" _Please come in_ ," Jira says.

"Um." I'm still catching up. "Thanks?"

" _Please come in_."

It's ridiculous, but _this_ might the creepiest thing that's happened today – somebody who's actually trying to... help? Too late, I realise that I should be more suspicious.

Curiously, I glide through the doorway.

Nothing shoots me, or stabs me.

Izzy follows. "Huh. Dope."

The security station is a small chamber that, probably, never gets used. In principle, it's necessary to have somewhere to keep unruly residents (or to store a few stunguns), but I doubt a place like Starfish would encounter much trouble from employees or the handful of tourists allowed on station. One wall is covered in security monitors; the central-most blinks to life.

The face reappears. She looks as I imagine a 1950's Japanese principal would look: serious, wiry, black hair run through with streaks of white, pulled into a severe bun. Wrinkles dance around her mouth and eyes, but the kind you get from frowning rather than smiling. I'd guess that she's in her mid-forties.

Her eyes are beady, birdlike, a pure emerald green. I'm drawn to them, somehow. Drawn to them like a child in a fairytale.

I can't help but get goosebumps.

Izzy also seems a little freaked.

The door closes, seemingly on its own.

Her gaze swivels towards me. 

"Alex," Jira says. "I know you're afraid, but I must share two very important facts. First, I can get you and your friends to safety. Second, I'm your mother."

My heart pounds. "No you're not."

"Yes, I am. I can prove it."

"No, you're not."

A freight train of incredulity races through me, driven by the knowledge that, really, what she said is impossible.

"I understand that at this time, you might not believe me." Her voice is calm. Urgent. "However, what I'm saying is true. If you're going to survive – if we're going to survive – you must listen. Yes, you were raised by Elena and Jason Strickland, but I am your biological mother, and I am telling you this not because I want to disrupt your life, but because I need you to trust me and understand that there is much at stake. The tragedy that is occurring on this station does not just affect us: it affects everything. Do you hear what I am saying?"

I nod.

I still don't believe her.

My fingers reach my notebook, feeling its cover through my jeans.

"You okay?" Izzy asks.

"I'm listening," I murmur.

"Good," Jira says. "Alex, please trust me. And I'm... sorry." She sighs, the first crack in her neutrality. "I didn't want things to turn out this way, truly, I didn't. I've tried so hard to make this happen, before, earlier, but I was never brave enough. Never quite prepared. So, I'm sorry. I'm sorry this is how this happens."

She turns away, searching for more words.

I don't believe her. I don't. It doesn't make sense.

But—

Perhaps this is a sad story. Those are the memorable ones.

That sculpture in my head? It's crumbling, falling between my fingers, dust borne away by the waves. I look at this woman, who says she's my mother, and I try and figure out what that truly means. For the first time, I notice what's behind her.

She's standing in a cavern; cavern full of light.

Then, Finn and Marko walk through the door.

Finn looks at the screen.

"Mum?" he asks. "What are you doing here?"


	12. Finn

"Finn! Finn. I'm so happy you're here," my mother says, smiling.

It's the first time she's smiled at me in months.

Feels strange.

Stranger just to _see_ her.

The day before I left, she was working in a university lab – in Berlin.

Which is more than strange; it's physically impossible. Isn't it?

"Not impossible," she says. "Difficult. I left shortly after on a direct route to Titan. They're investigating a lot of new physics here, and my research group wanted to send an observer for a sensitive set of experiments. I was the best choice. Of course I would've told you, if you weren't already in transit."

"Okay," I say.

It isn't.

"I was just telling Alex something very important," she says. Her smile's gone.

"Oh?"

"That you're her brother."

"Oh."

I'm floating.

In a lake.

In an ocean.

I feel old panic starting to return, but familiarity doesn't mean I'm able to control it. I think I've made a mistake. Maybe human beings are doomed to make the same mistakes, over and over. I want to breathe, to move, but I can't, untethered inside my own mind.

Alex stares at me as if I'm an alien.

I stare as if she's not even there.

"Finn – did you hear me? You have a sister. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you sooner."

What am I supposed to say?

My mother isn't known for playing jokes.

My mother isn't known for playing liar.

Either she's changed, or Alex is my sister.

From her shellshocked expression, Alex obviously didn't know.

I wonder what my expression says.

Strange, to have your whole life dredged up. A few words, some misplaced belief and it churns like a whirlpool, and at the bottom's a pit you've been spending whole nightmares trying to outrun while in reality, the ground's collapsing as if you'd never moved at all. Quick breaths flow unbidden in my chest.

I'm six years old, hiding in a cupboard from a monster, and it's the same quick breaths. I'm sixteen years old, hiding on a space station, and I've always been alone.

I don't have to panic.

I could.

I don't _have_ to.

Not yet.

Marko's behind me, and Izzy's in front of me, and the glow of my mother's face casts ours in light and shadow.

Alex points like an accusing lawyer. "Wait a minute, wait a minute. You're my mum... and he's my brother? _Him_?"

"Yes. Technically, Finn is your older brother."

"Oh _god_ , you can't expect me to take that seriously. The mum thing is bad enough, but _this_? This is taking a joke too bloody far."

"I assure you, it isn't."

"Then... how? Why?" Her face – her entire body – struggles to contain her bewilderment.

"I put you up for adoption at an early age," my mother says calmly. "I regret it, but I did. Circumstances made raising two children more difficult than I'd anticipated."

"'Circumstances'? What circumstances?"

"Circumstances we can discuss in person, once we're safe."

"Nah, I don't bloody think so." She steps forwards, confusion morphing into anger. 

"Alex, please—"

" _You_ don't get to drop a giant bomb like that and say 'we'll talk about it later'. Have you ever watched a single TV show? Because whoever says 'we'll talk about it later' is the next character to die. Don't think this means I believe you, either – not for one second." She can't decide whether to fold her arms or put her hands on her hips, so she does both.

My mother doesn't often look confused, but Alex, to her credit, has managed it. She glances aside, thinking. "Two minutes. Then – promise me – you'll follow my instructions."

"When was I adopted?"

"You were two years old." She's trying to seem accommodating, but her eyes aren't good at it.

"Did you know my parents, or was it random?"

"Random."

"Have you checked up on me at any point?"

"Occasionally. Not often. Once every two or three years."

"What about my dad? If you did give birth to me, I assume someone else was involved."

"His name is Yusuke. He lives in Japan, as a doctor. We were never married."

"Does he know who I am?"

Jira nods.

"Does _he_ know who I am?" Alex points at me.

"No."

She turns around, fire in her eyes. "Then why the hell aren't YOU asking any questions?"

I don't know what to say. "I don't know what to say."

Her jaw clenches. "This is _crazy_ , right? Am I crazy?" She faces the others. "The first rando who actually wants to _help_ us insists she's my long-lost mother? That's more nuts than a squirrel warehouse!"

"You're not wrong," Marko says quietly.

He throws me a look.

I think he's asking if I'm okay.

'I don't know.'

Always 'I don't know.'

Trapped in the whirlpool, churning, churning.

"Maybe this is, uh, too much for right now?" Izzy says. "It's a _lot,_ anyways _._ Maybe it's better if we talk about it after, and for now we could... listen? And be supportive?" She puts a hand on Alex's shoulder, who tries her hardest not to brush it off. My mother looms, a benevolent overlord, unblinking.

"I'm not done," Alex grunts.

"Sorry, I didn't mean it that way. But—"

"Why'd you bring us here? To Starfish?"

"I didn't," Jira says.

Alex rolls her eyes. "So me and my long-lost brother happen to apply to the same science camp, and happen to get accepted, and happen to get shipped out to Saturn where we run into the _one_ person who can connect us? If you aren't lying about the rest of it, that's one big effing _coincidence_ —"

"It's true," Jira says. "I didn't mean for this to happen. This isn't the result of ulterior motives."

"Then what motive could you _possibly_ have? You said you'd help us escape, but really all you've done is, y'know, try and uproot my entire life and I don't see how that helps anyone—"

"I never wanted to uproot anything; I _want_ you to trust me. You must realise that I have you best interests at heart, and that I have a _reason_ for helping you, and thus there are reasons for us to trust one another. That trust will be necessary for us to survive this. And perhaps, I thought it best you knew. Is that not enough?"

I don't think I do trust her.

But why lie?

"I'm sorry, Finn," she says, catching me off guard.

Sorry for what?

Uprooting my life, I suppose.

Alex shakes her head. "This isn't good enough. It doesn't make sense!—"

"No." She cuts us off with a wave of her hand, a green glow playing across her cheek. "I realise you need time, but it's a luxury we do not have. You need to..." She looks over her shoulder. "You need to come and find me, in the station dormitories. I've barricaded myself in Section 104. From there, I can get you to safety."

"What about the terrorists?" Marko asks, stepping out of the shadows. "Do you know why they're here? Or if they're between us and you?"

"An unforeseen problem; no, and no. Hazarding a guess, some of our more classified research has led to unimaginably valuable breakthroughs - the sort that's worth going to all this trouble to obtain. You'll simply have to be cautious. I'll do my best to divert them from my position... though if you've made it this far, I'm sure you can manage."

"And the monsters?"

My mother frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Wait, you saw 'em too?" Izzy asks.

"Yeah, we ran into one." Marko glances at me.

"Big glowy light beasts? Fans of eating corpses?"

I nod.

"There are no monsters here," my mother says. "Other than, perhaps, the human kind."

"Whatever they are, they're definitely not human," Izzy says. "More... uh..."

"Alien," Marko says.

"I was thinking 'ghost-y'."

"Phantasmal," Alex murmurs.

"Are you sure you aren't hallucinating?" My mother's face is sort of neutrally concerned. "I would advise checking your air supply, if it continues. At any rate, time is short. Meet me in Section 104. Alex? Finn? Be careful. I love you."

She says it so casually it strikes me by surprise.

The words don't sit well in her mouth. Never have.

Whenever she went on a trip, she'd always leave in the middle of the night so she didn't have to say goodbye. I'd comb through the camera feed afterwards and sometimes, I'd see her pause for a moment in front of my bedroom door, looking at the gap between it and the carpet. Other times, she wouldn't spare a second thought.

The words don't sit well.

Doesn't mean they're untrue, deep down.

Her gaze stares into me, no emotion, not really, the same amount of emotion as if she was asking about my report card. She reaches out, and—

The screen deactivates.

The world is silent.

"Call her back," Alex says. "Izzy, call her back!"

"Would if I could – I'm still locked out of the Mesh."

I hand you a cardboard box.

There's a surprise inside.

Is it a happy surprise, or a sad one?

Perhaps it's both, until the box is opened.

Alex turns to me. The heat coming off her could thaw a glacier. "You really didn't know about this. Promise me, you didn't know. Promise me you're not part of some fucked-up lie."

My heart whispers, so loud I think she'll hear it.

_She's your sister._

The words nearly choke me. "No. I'm... I'm sorry."

She punches a table.

It cracks.

_She's your sister._

Ferdinand curls up between my feet, deceptively calm.

"You doing okay?" Izzy murmurs.

"I am _perfectly fine_ , thank you for asking," Alex retorts.

"You look fine," Marko says.

"I know."

"Table, not so much."

"I _know._ " She exhales sharply. "Okay, smartarse, was she telling the truth?"

Marko presses his lips together. "Some of it. Probably not all of it. I mean, you're correct, it's one hell of a coincidence, and... something about her. It felt like she was acting. Not totally lying, but acting. Anyone else get that impression?"

"How can you tell?" Izzy asks.

He shrugs. "A guess."

"So she _was_ shady," Alex says. "Shadier than what's left of the Amazon."

"But she can get us off the station," Izzy says. "So unless we think she's _completely_ lying, we gotta go for it. Finn? What do you think, she's your mum."

Um.

What do I think?

"She's usually not that nice," I say quietly.

"This was her being _nice_?"

"Or that talkative. But—"

"Definite family resemblance," Alex mutters.

Marko shoots her a look. "But we can trust her?"

The thing is, my mother _does_ hide things – she's hidden plenty from me in the past (mostly due to differing opinions on which information matters to which people, rather than actual malevolence). Strictly speaking, though, she's never tried to kill me and I'm ninety-five percent sure she won't start now. Well, ninety percent.

"We can trust her," I say. "Unless... you found some escape pods?"

"No luck," Izzy says, grimacing. "We searched a second dock, but that turned into a whole other nightmare."

"Finn and I did manage to send a distress call," Marko says. "So that went alright. Plus, the signal got picked up, sort of..."

"Did you get a reply or not?" Alex asks, in the tone of someone trying incredibly hard to be calm.

"There _was_ a connection, but there was lots of interference – we couldn't really tell what they were saying. But help's probably on the way, in about twelve hours."

"Twelve HOURS? I if was placing odds on us surviving for another twelve hours it'd be about ten-to-one on all four of us making it. Have you guys seen my leg? Friends, there was a hole in this leg."

"Big hole," Izzy agrees. "Big big hole. Hated it. Did you two run into the debris alarm earlier? 'Cause we did and that did not go well for us."

I can't remember any alarms.

Recognition, in Marko's eyes. "Ah," he says. "About that. So, those monsters—"

"Fuck, the fuckin' _monsters_!" Alex says. "Sorry, swear jar. In my defence there's a LOT going on."

"Honestly, swear all you fucking want," Marko replies. "Anyway, we saw one, then—"

"Did you see 'em kill people?" Izzy asks. "Ours killed, like, three hijackers and I guess _technically_ those guys might not be dead but they're at least _kinda_ dead, and honestly it was like it ripped their souls out or something because they went totally _limp_ —"

Marko blinks. "You ran into more terrorists? And that monster _killed_ them?"

"Yeah! It was big ball of light 'cept it looked hella weird when we closed our eyes, which doesn't make any physical sense but it was so much scarier, like it was right there in our heads but also... not." Izzy shivers. "It looked... waterfall-y? Like a whole buncha waterfalls stuck together?"

"Ours was more of a scribble, but..." He shakes his head. "The kind of scribble a psychopath draws before they murder someone."

"What I'm wondering," Alex says, "is what they actually _are -_ right _?_ Because fine, they're weird-ass monsters, but monsters only exist before we understand what created them. Think of... bears; bears are big, and scary, and aggressive, especially if you've never seen one before, but they're not _monsters_. Are these light-things just... bears?" She trails off.

"You're asking if this is, like, a Saturn bear," Marko says.

"Yeah."

"I don't think it's a Saturn bear."

"You seem pretty certain about these _mystery killer lights_ we found—"

"Could be aliens," Izzy says.

In unison: "I don't think it's aliens."

"Why not? The Starshot mission's meant to arrive at Alpha Centauri next year, plenty of chances for aliens to turn up. Or if you don't like that theory, maybe it's the result of secret military supersoldier experiments gone ultra bad."

"We discovered ghosts, guys," Alex says. "We've solved the mystery of what ghosts are."

"Mesh virus?" Izzy says. "A super complex, specific Mesh virus causing virtual reality hallucinations?"

Marko shrugs. "Maybe I could come around on aliens."

It's probably none of those things.

But if not... what's left?

"Before," Alex says, "you mentioned something weird happened?"

"Oh, yeah," Marko says. " _Extra_ weird. So, at the comms station, we had to hide from one of the monsters. That was fine. But then, on the way back... we saw more of them." He swallows, recalling a fading dream. "There were hundreds, and hundreds, filling the whole hallway, and they seemed... not human, not completely, but they had human shapes. It was insane. It felt like they could see us."

He looks at me, uncertain.

Which is odd.

Marko's whole character is built upon always being certain.

"But you're alive," Izzy says. "So did they leave? Ignore you?"

"That's the point – I can't remember. _We_ can't remember," he says. "There's this... gap, in our memories. One minute, we're in the hallway with hundreds of these ghosts, and the next minute, we're alone, sitting on the floor. It's like time skipped ahead."

"You must've been knocked unconscious," Alex says.

"I don't remember being knocked out – we don't even remember _waking up._ "

"MeshPal logs?" Izzy asks. "There should be biometric data, auditory recordings..."

"Nothing. As I said, it's like a time-skip, or like somebody flat-out deleted those files. Finn had the exact same thing."

"Yeah. It's strange." I rub my nose, staring into the shadows.

It's scary.

In spite of my complaining, and my anxiety, I do quite like how my brain works – that's why I don't drink at high school parties, or use unsigned Mesh stims. If someone's apparently messing with my memories... it frustrates me. Sets me adrift. No matter how much I try and focus on that period of time, I skid across it without being able to stop. (It reminds me of my first time ice-skating, which of course I can remember in mortifying detail, but the last half-hour? A mess.)

I can't believe I used this to manipulate people.

I wonder if this is how they felt.

"So you got hypnotised?" Izzy asks. "Possessed?"

I'm even less keen on that idea. "Nah," I say. "At least, it didn't feel like that."

"From what you're saying, it didn't feel like anything." She's got me there. "Besides, people never remember when they've been possessed by evil spirits."

"...They don't?"

"People in MeshSims, and movies, and TV shows—"

"I'm not sure we should base our theories on horror stories," Alex mutters.

"Then what do we base them on?" Izzy asks. "We're stuck on a dying space station full of bad guys and ghosts and bad-guy ghosts, and you had your whole hecking life torn up and I can barely _imagine_ how that feels, and you too, Finn, and if I was you guys I'd probably sit in the corner and cry so as far as I'm concerned, anything goes. I'm ready to believe in _anything._ "

"I'm not," Alex sighs. "At least, not right now. Let's wait until we meet this Jira lady - if she hasn't changed her story after I punch her a couple times, I'll reconsider."

"Probably for the best," Marko says.

"I won't actually punch your mum, Finn," Alex adds.

"Uh... thanks?"

"Much." She clenches her fist.

"Either way," Marko says, "we should get going."

"Deffo," Izzy says. "What if we do some spooky Scooby-Doo snooping on the way and figure out what these monsters are? And run the heck away if we find another one... or another hundred." She laughs nervously. Squeezes Alex's arm.

I try smiling. Doesn't help.

Terrorists.

Ghosts.

My dearest mother.

I like to think I'm smart, but I'm not, because smart people don't keep making the same mistakes, even if they're scared, or in pain, or worse. If you stack enough bad choices on top of one another, eventually, they'll come crashing down around you. That's just physics.

A reason.

There must be a reason my mother said those things. Always a reason, even if it's a bad one.

The whirlpool churns.

I shut it out.

* * *

Floating on an ocean.

You don't have to panic.

Our route takes us clockwise around the hub's perimeter, through long, wide thoroughfares that form a grid between labs and workspaces. Everything here is newer, less spartan, lights brighter, walls less grey. The damage isn't hugely catastrophic; it's more like kids with baseball bats skated through conducting very selective vandalism. To our left is a conference room, chairs set around a mock-wood table. To our right, floor-to-ceiling windows have been shattered, revealing an open test space filled with cameras and netting. Smoke pools around air vents, creating a sneeze-inducing haze. 

Ahead, Alex looks from side to side, while Izzy mutters to herself, trying to crack the encryption on a datapad she found. Free-floating glass shards bounce off my chest, and Marko sweeps them aside with his glove, blue eyes reflected faintly in his helmet. Despite everything, he keeps that same casual slouch, as if on a regular Sunday stroll.

Some people are just...

It's robotic, the way he moves so evenly and precisely, always in the right position whenever we reach a new handhold.

His shoulders.

Forearms.

Legs.

I sigh. 

Even his hair's the kind of messy that always looks perfect, while mine's just... messy. I run my fingers through it, feeling the starchiness of dried blood.

Ferdinand's perching on my shoulder, his claws sharp through my suit.

 _< I'm distracting myself> _I explain.

His gaze possesses a certain hint of reproach.

He's right, though.

_< Okay, okay. I'll stop.>_

Alex is making her way towards me. With a couple of light taps on her suit's thrusters, she comes to a relative stop. She spins so that we're both facing forwards.

"What's she like?" she asks, switching to a private channel.

"Who?"

"Your mum, dumba— _duh_." Insult turns into eye-roll.

"That's... a big question," I say.

"Yeah, and I want a big answer. Think about this from my perspective – I wanna know what I've been dragged into."

The thing is, I'm not sure how I feel about my mother. Five years ago, or ten, I would've been sure – my opinion might've see-sawed daily, depending on whether she'd given me a chocolate bar or not, but I would've been _sure_. Now...

It's hard to describe a person who no longer exists. "This is a – look, it's a weird situation, so I don't want to influence you. You're better off forming your own opinion, I reckon."

"Yeah, and I'm planning to," Alex says. "But I'd also like to hear it from you. Please?"

The question shivers in her eyes.

Ugh, I don't know what I can say. The trouble is, talking about it forces me to think about it; in a way, I don't mind that my mother's away from home so much.

"She's away a lot, for work," I say. " My friends think she's a bit... strict? Not friendly? But she does care, and she lets me do my own thing, which is nice." The words sound fake, even if they mostly aren't. "Sorry," I murmur. "I understand you're curious, but—"

"Finn, just _tell_ me. C'mon, break it down – is she nice?"

"Um, sure... she's not _not_ nice."

Alex sighs. "Okay, let's try this the hard way, then. Let me guess: you don't talk to your mum a lot. She's always busy with work, and you want to think she cares about you, but the only things she ever asks about are your exam marks and whether you're eating enough vegetables, which is probably never. You feel like you're expected to try really hard at school but you never get much back in return. Typical quiet kid with overbearing parents... I've heard that story before."

I shake my head.

"Then prove me wrong." She moves in front, forcing me to look at her.

Marko's gone to chat with Izzy up ahead.

I'm not getting out of this.

She _does_ look like me. A bit more open, and more confident, and presently a bit more irritated, but she does look like me.

We pass through a huge, semi-circular gate, followed by a series of security scanners. The smoke's thicker, now, diffusing in faint, ashen balloons. Definitely a good idea to keep our helmets closed.

I make an effort to verbalise my thoughts. "I... Alex, I don't know what you want. I can say 'she's really great, you'll be friends?' Or 'oh, my life sucks'? Or—"

"Finn, I don't want a specific opinion, I just want _an_ opinion. Why's this make you so uncomfortable? Dude, you live with her."

No, I don't. Not really.

"Why do you care, anyway?" I say eventually. "After this, you'll probably never see her again. Or me. You can forget it."

"I care because it _matters,_ Finn. Right now it matters that she's my mum and that you're my brother." She trips over the last word, staring into the distance. I think it's the first time she's acknowledged it without—

" _If_ it's true," she adds. "If it's true."

Ah, there it is.

I don't want to be selfish.

Still, it's painful.

"She was really nice, when I was younger," I murmur. "We used to do a lot together. I mean, it was just her, but it was also just me, so it was nice. Easy." This is the easy part. "I think... in my opinion, she felt guilty about my dad not being around, so she went to a lot of effort. I used to go everywhere with her, got to see a lot of different places. Stayed in Perth, most of the time, but I went on trips to Berlin, and Cairo, and Mars..."

"Mars, huh?"

"Yeah, working on their fusion power stations. That's what she does – extreme environment physics. I was too young to stay by myself, and she didn't want someone else constantly looking after me, so she had to take me with her. Even though she was working a lot, she still found time to... I mean, she'd always work on extra maths problems with me, every night, and take me to after-school sports, and look at the bad comic strips I drew. She'd make sushi, sometimes, even though she hated cooking. Or cleaning. Mostly cleaning. Those bamboo rolling mats are really hard to clean. But... I like sushi."

I'm looking at the floor, flowing past my boots.

A river of plastic, white and calm.

As the ambient temperature rises, the glowstrips grow dimmer.

"What changed?" she asks.

"She just... started leaving me at home. I didn't mind, I was starting high school so I liked having freedom and being able to do whatever. I tried to be responsible, and not just sit around eating ice-cream all day, but she'd talk less and less and be away for longer and longer and when I _did_ sometimes need to ask her things she'd never have time. Maybe she felt like she'd done enough, or there were more important things, or... people change, I guess. Not sure why. But I didn't mind."

"Kind of a bad time to be on your own, though," Alex says. "With the corps trying to take us over, and China doing their thing, and the bio-freedom protests. I remember being pretty scared of that stuff, and I was nowhere near it – the bio-freedom stuff especially."

If people can plug AIs into their brains to make them think differently, or faster, or better; or can change their bodies and DNA to make them look like animals, or mythical creatures, or whatever they can imagine... what _is_ human anymore? Is it being born one? Is it rejecting MeshPals and medbots and every other augmentation swimming under our skins?

Perhaps 'how human are you, really?' is more valid as a question than which god you believe in, or which colour your skin is, or who it is that you love... but, as always, it a lot of people are violently invested in the answer. In my opinion there are more immediate things to sort out, whether that's the planet going to hell, or the peaceful and nonthreatening rise of artificial intelligence, or whether it's okay to let corporations and dictators and compete in proxy-wars and buy entire countries. (Although, my idea of a solution is building spaceships to get as far away as possible, also known as not an actual solution.)

"I think it's creepy," Alex says. "Changing yourself that much."

"Maybe."

"It's creepy. And people shouldn't get violent about it."

I tend not to bother arguing, especially with people who dislike changing their minds. "From the outside," I say, "it might look as if we aren't close. But I still think my life's pretty normal. Being on my own has helped, in some ways."

"What do you mean?"

"I've sort of learned to do my own thing, in terms of... goals. And she always told me I should contribute something important, or useful with my life. Not to waste it."

"High expectations," Alex says.

I shrug.

Nothing's ever completely good, or completely bad.

For better or worse, my mother made me.

I don't mind the result, mostly.

"You said it was normal, but... weren't you scared? Being on your own?"

"No."

Yes.

No.

I did wonder, though; if the way things changed was my fault.

"I don't think I'd like living in a city-dome," Alex says, stretching her arms above her head. I wish we'd get to Section 104 already. "Buildings everywhere, heaps of pollution, no free space, no stars... what do you _do_ all day in a place like that?"

I check to make sure it's a serious question. "It's not entirely skyscrapers. There's parks. Swimming pools. You can hang out, go to VRcades, catch a gravtube to another city. No stars, maybe, but the lights are still pretty at night – although they started having curfews last year, after that kid got... um. That kid. If you remember."

"Oh, I remember. We didn't get curfews in the country, though." She pressed her lips together. "What about your dad? Did you ever meet him?"

"No."

"Did you ask to?"

"I... thought it was better not to."

"Weren't you curious? Like, you could ask – nothing wrong with asking. I get it, you don't like thinking about it, or talking to me about it obviously buuuuut maybe it's because you feel you don't know your own mother, which, I gotta say, is partly on you."

I pause. "That's a _wild_ guess."

"Is it? You said she stopped talking to you, but it sounds like you didn't really try."

"Okay," I say, shaking my head. "It's better if you get this from her."

"Why?"

"It just _is_." 

I clamp my mouth shut.

"Kinda feels like you're trying to protect me from my own opinions," she says, "or that you think you know what's best. And whatever, maybe you're right, but for god's sake I wish you'd throw me a _bone_ – you didn't ask about your dad because you didn't care, fine, but maybe you _should've!_ " She points to her chest, then mine. "We could've figured out this mess years ago and there wouldn't BE these freaking problems!"

"Really?"

"Maybe! Maybe. And d'you know what the worst part is? I keep thinking _you're_ the one I should be jealous of because you the 'real' side of this situation, growing up, and I got..." She looks down. "I got a lie. Which isn't true. But it's hard not to—"

"Your side's real. More real."

"How do you know?" she asks.

"I... don't."

"Then ask me."

"About what?"

She smiles humourlessly. "You really are oblivious."

I'm just tired.

Usually, I can close my eyes, take a couple of long breaths, which halts my annoyance before it becomes too much.

Right now, that's not working.

My head's fuzzy.

"Honestly, I never had a reason to suspect anything," she continues. "I always lived in the same place, my parents never treated my any differently and I never ever would've thought— I can't imagine them lying about this. I can't. But maybe they did."

I don't think she cares if I'm listening.

She dumps memories onto me as they pop into her head.

Her dog.

Her school.

Her parents.

A place called the tomato tower.

"You'd like my parents," she says. "You'd _love '_ em. You'd like it on the farm, too – if this turns out to be true, you could come and live with us. It's clearly the better choice. I can't live on my own with you, and you aren't that attached, so... if we did have to stay together, that's what we'd do." She sounds unsure, even as she says it. "Might be fun."

The whirlpool starts rising, spurred on by the crappy sense of disbelief in her voice. "You don't what I'm attached to."

"Then tell me, Finn. You have to _tell_ me, _talk_ to me. I wanna understand—"

"Alex, you think you're great at 'figuring people out', but you aren't."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Sometimes people _don't_ want to talk about it. Can't you accept that?"

"No! Because I'm trying to help us both through a bullshit situation and I can't and I feel like I'm _dying_ and maybe you can't see but I'm freaked out and you're the only one who can—"

"I don't care." I'm not looking at her.

"Finn, please—"

"You're better off not knowing."

"Why do you get to decide that? For me? For any of us?"

"Okay, then why do you think you life is _so much better_ than mine, huh?" I whirl around. "It's obvious! You think I'm – I'm a loser, and my life is—"

"I _THINK_ you're my brother! Why won't you talk to me!?" For a second I think she'll throw a punch; her hand's there, then she throws it out behind her.

Haven't been punched in a while.

"Leave me alone," I mutter.

"No! You're expecting me to just _know_ what's in your head, like you're the one who gets to decide what happens and how I feel! You aren't the one who's been lied to! You're so – so _full of yourself!_ "

I almost choke. "And you're _not?_ "

Izzy's voice slices through the air. "HEY! STOP THAT! What the _heck_ , guys?"

I feel her hand on my shoulder.

Her hands on both our shoulders.

Even though she can't hear us, it must be pretty obvious. Alex's visor is an inch from mine, a black hole.

"What's up?" Izzy asks. "What's wrong?"

Alex grits her teeth. "I'm _trying_ to talk to Finn."

"But?" Marko asks, approaching from behind.

"He's not being very _helpful._ "

"Well, maybe he doesn't want to talk," Marko says. 

I hate the redness in my face.

I close my eyes, breathe in. It's not working.

"If he doesn't want to talk, it can wait."

Alex pulls away. "Is it _that_ wrong to want to figure this out before we die in a bloody fire?"

"No, like, of course not!" Izzy says. "I'd be totally the same! Maybe we can be calm, though? Until later? No one's going to die?" She couldn't sound less certain if she'd tried. "Please?"

"Ugggghhh," Alex groans. "Finn? You're kind of an asshole, y'know."

Something snaps. Whirlpool turns red and my vision flashes and—

"Shut up!" I hiss. "Shut up, shut up, _shut up_! I don't like you. I never have."

I hear myself spit it.

I hear myself believe it.

Immediately, I'm ashamed.

But of course, I can't admit it.

I see myself, in her eyes.

Her, carved into my brain.

Everything I'm afraid of.

Suddenly, I'm falling sideways.

It feels _weird_ , as if—

I bump gently into the wall, and stick there.

So does Alex.

So does everyone.

Gravity's back, except it's... sideways?

"Let's take a breath," Marko says slowly. "Everyone. Alright? No more arguing, or shouting. It's not good. It's never good."

For once, he doesn't smile at me.

"Let's be positive!" Izzy adds. "Stressful situations are usually good bonding experiences – we get _soooo_ much bonding time!"

"Yeah, yeah, take it down a notch," Alex grumbles. She ignores me pointedly, climbing to her feet. As weird as zero-g is, standing on the wall is almost as bad.

Gravity, essentially, is an acceleration. On Earth, you're accelerating towards the ground; when the station's spinning, we're accelerating towards its centre; when the station's boosting, it's accelerating towards us (or we're alternately accelerating towards _it_ ). Starfish must be changing orbits, but it's hard to know which direction, or why.

Lowering the orbit _would_ be a way to destroy the station – get too low, and it'd burn up in Saturn's atmosphere.

"How long would that take?" Marko asks.

It's not too difficult to estimate, with Ferdinand's help – it basically depends on where Starfish is, our thrust, and how heavy Saturn is. The station orbits near the inner diameter of Saturn's rings – 74,000 kilometres – and Saturn's upper atmosphere starts at 58,000 kilometres, which is a decrease of 16,000 kilometres. Saturn's mass implies a necessary orbital velocity decrease of 2.4 km/s. That isn't much; I reckon our current gravity is about one-third of Earth's, so... 13 minutes, accelerating at our current rate.

On the other hand, that's a huge manoeuvre in an engineering sense. If a more efficient route was used, such as a Hohmann transfer, we'd need a decrease of only 0.5 km/s but we'd also have to wait half an orbit to actually hit Saturn. That's 7000 seconds, or... two hours? Less time than I thought. (I keep 'thirteen minutes' to myself.)

"We'd better flippin' move, then," Izzy says. "Move it or lose it. Are you guys gonna be fine? Bad vibes, bad times but we gotta keep it together."

"Yeah, yeah." Alex narrows her eyes.

I nod.

"Friends," Izzy says, as if babysitting a pair of toddlers. "Let's be friends."


	13. Finn

The hallway, instead of downward, now curves gradually to the right, following the circumference of the station's hub. I reach out and brush my fingers along the floor-slash-wall, textured polymer through my gloves. We pick our way around doorways, windows, light fixtures. The half-gravity adds a dreamy bounce to our movements, an extra length to our strides.

One small issue: the next T-junction turns ninety degrees straight down. Normally it'd lead... left, I think? To the south face of the station? It's tricky to keep the geometry straight in my head, with gravity constantly changing.

Marko peers over the edge. "Big drop."

"We can jump it," Alex says. "Easy."

"Spare a thought for us short people," Izzy says. "This is the Grand Canyon for my tiny legs."

It's three metres across.

I don't like heights.

More precisely, I don't like falls.

Alex takes a quick run-up and lands gracefully on the far side. She almost jumps _too_ far, stumbling into a gas tank. "Shit!"

"Doable," Marko says (and the low gravity means he doesn't have to try particularly hard).

Izzy goes back five metres, ten metres, then sprints towards the gap, legs pumping – leaps – flies through the air – cannons straight into Alex, bowling them both over the gas tank.

"Shit!" Alex says again.

Izzy just giggles.

I gulp.

Logically, it's a small jump.

I can't help imagining the dozen ways it could go wrong.

Still, I back up.

Start running. One step—

Two—

Five—

Before my brain decides my feet aren't in the right place, I spring upwards and try not to look down, instead focusing on the far side hoping I haven't made some huge mistake.

This time, my legs don't fail me.

I'm actually vaguely impressed with myself.

"Well, I need to pee," Alex says.

We are, in fact, next to a bathroom. The door's at the wrong angle, leading down, but the room beyond isn't quite as treacherous an abyss.

"I'll join you," Marko murmurs.

"You could just... go anywhere?" Izzy says. "No one's gonna mind."

Alex rolls her eyes. "I'm not an animal, Izzy."

"Just sayin'."

I sit on the gas tank, and Izzy sits beside me. Alex and Marko lower themselves into the bathroom, dropping out of sight. The toilets will be at _completely_ the wrong angle to be useful, but they'll figure that out soon enough. Internally, I sketch the shape of the monster from the comms room; a sharp edge here, a blur there, trying to recall its essence, the way it moved, the way it looked... wrong.

I should give Ferdinand some paintbrushes for claws.

He'd probably just draw himself a mouse to eat.

"Can you smell something?" Izzy asks. She sniffs deeply. "Smoke, burning plastic... stuff on fire that's, like, not supposed to be? It's coming through my suit filters."

I can't smell anything, but my nose is terrible. 

"I kinda wish these suits came in different colours – not a huge fan of this bright red. Scarlet? Is that what it's called? It makes me look like a tomato but like, a gross three-week-old one." Izzy drapes an arm across my shoulders. It rests against my neck, casual but unfamiliar, making me anxious from how unearned it feels.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

"Weird few hours, huh?"

"Haha, yeah."

She smiles cheerfully. "Not much of a hugger."

I wince, my shoulders stiff.

"I'll stop annoying you, then."

"It's not annoying. I'm just, um... awkward."

"The secret is that everyone's awkward, but they either hide it or they just don't care. Still, I was thinking what it'd be like if there were people here." She spreads her hands at the deserted, upturned walkway. "If we were doing what we're _supposed_ to be doing."

"You mean the science camp?"

"Yep. You're pretty smart, aren't you?"

"I... not really." I'm good at exams; I don't know if that means I'm smart.

"Well, I looked your name up before coming and if you're the same Finn Pahlavi you've won a _heap_ of science competitions."

"Oh, uh... those." I smile weakly. "My mum forces me to enter those."

"Way to make me feel bad! I entered those and _lost_." A Cheshire Cat grin. "TBH I'm not great at that stuff, so no hard feelings, or whatever – and it's awesome, obviously, you did some super cool stuff. I should trap you in a room sometime so you can tell me all your secrets."

"Secrets?"

"Yeah, I mean – I need some of that smartness to rub off on me. I have things to _do_ , friend. Crap!" She jumps a clean half-metre into the air. "Here, look at this. My MeshHack managed to tunnel through station security."

Izzy sends me a map: a proper, annotated 3-D diagram of Starfish, drawn in neon-blue wireframes. On it, there are forty or fifty blinking dots, split into clusters. "You can access the Mesh?"

"For now, only this stream, but hopefully more soon." She moves her hands as if plucking at strings of data, excitement transferring her thoughts into actions. It's a bit like when I scratch Ferdinand but accidentally perform the motion in real life.

"What are the dots?" I ask.

"Personal locaters."

"People?"

"Yep! MeshPal bio-pings, everything from the last couple minutes. Neat, right?"

There are no dots nearby, and none where my mother's apparently hiding. I suspect that most people are maintaining a low profile, a.k.a. turning off their locater signals, so the pings are probably those of remaining station staff. The main concentration is a group of twenty near the docks.

I swing my feet, and kick an object on the ground.

A notebook.

"Oh, that's Alex's," Izzy says, busy shoving data around.

The faux-leather binding is electric beneath my fingertips.

I shouldn't open it.

I open it.

Second last page.

It takes me a second to decipher the abstract scribbles, but—

I read about her impressions of us, humans reduced to pithy bullet points.

She at least possesses the self-awareness to assess her own failings, too.

I don't know if that makes it any better. It doesn't make me like her.

I feel myself blush.

I close the book.

Thirty seconds later, she climbs out of the bathroom, grunting with effort. "You ever tried to use a toilet that's bolted to the wall? 'Cause I have, and it's _tricky_."

"You could've just peed anywhere," Izzy says again.

"Yeah, yeah, just wait a couple hours. Bet you won't wanna shit on a table _then_."

I hold out her notebook. "You dropped this."

She narrows her eyes, but doesn't say a word as she pockets it.

* * *

Clichéd or not, rotating the world onto its side does offer a different perspective. Doors become trapdoors (or simply traps); windows become otherworldly portals beneath our feet; potted plants droop sideways across our path, disturbed and debilitated. The smoke keeps on thickening, the temperature inching past 30°C. If the station's a living organism, it needs a hospital – bleeding from open wounds, wracked by fever, enemies circling like vultures. We climb through hallways and laboratories rendered oddly unrecognisable, over or under or through the remains of everything that wasn't nailed down, chairs, computers, scattered toolkits. Alex kicks a bottle out of her way and the low gravity gives it an eerie flight three times too long.

Once more, we arrive at a cliff.

The hallway turns vertically downwards. Marko activates his suit lights, strands of smoke creating ethereal highlights.

"We're going down this?" Izzy asks.

"Yeah, we need to be more central," Alex says. "I think this would normally lead..."

"Left," I murmur. "South side of the hub."

"Yes. Left. Good news is, once we're there, it's a straight shot to Section 94 or wherever the hell we're heading. 94? 104?"

"Love that confidence," Marko says dryly. "But yeah, I'm pretty sure that's correct. And check it out, we can use the cables as handholds." Thick power cables snake from an open doorway into the gloom below, fastened to the wall with brackets. He grabs one, tugs it experimentally.

Don't look down.

If it was full Earth gravity I'd be worried, but in this environment, even my scarecrow muscles can cope – I hope.

My feet tingle as I slide cautiously over the ledge, the cable instantly taut beneath my gloves. 

Don't look down. 

The cable twitches, vibrating, my boots finding as much purchase as they can which never feels like enough. I stare at the wall inches from my face, my throat thick with nervousness. The thought 'don't fall' consumes my complete concentration and because of that, paradoxically, I'm probably way more likely to make a mistake.

Fear is a strange impulse. Useful in some ways, debilitating in others.

"How are you doing?" Marko asks.

"Fine," I grunt. "I'm fine."

"What was that argument with Alex?"

We must be on a private channel.

"Nothing," I say.

Don't look down.

"You can talk to me. I know what it's like." His voice the lilt of a daytime TV therapist. "If you're feeling... adrift? Is that the right word?"

Not quite.

I'm mostly angry.

At myself.

At the world.

Fear turns into anger, which turns into hate, which turns into suffering. I think Yoda said that once. Right now, I'm concentrating on scaling this frickin' cable.

"I'm fine," I say. "But thank you."

"Okay. I do have more chocolate, if you need an incentive. Between you and me, it might not be so bad, having a sibling." I hear him exhale; the way his breath crackles in my ear makes me want to believe him. "It's... a nice thing," he says. "Trust me."

Still, I'd rather form my own opinion.

"Hey, how are you holding up?" Marko asks.

Um.

Mostly the same as three seconds ago.

Alex's voice cuts in. " _Great_ ," she says. " _Brilliant_."

"Still pissed?"

" _Sort of. Finn was being incredibly weird about, ugh – everything. He was weird about_ everything _._ "

"I understand. I'd be angry too, if I was in your boat. Finn... yes, he's weird sometimes, from your perspective, and mine too, but it might be because he's scared."

Am I supposed to be hearing this?

" _Scared of_ what _? Besides, that's not an excuse to clam up like a – a clam_."

"True. Fair enough. Still, try not to fight? It's not the kind of thing that helps anyone."

" _Well, if you ask real nicely..._ "

"I _was_ nice. I was super nice." Now he sounds more like a gossipy best friend. "If you do a low-key shoulder to lean on, let me know. I'm told I'm pretty good at it."

" _By who?_ "

"Yelp reviews."

He's one of those optical illusions that's a rabbit from one angle and an old woman from another; I'm not sure which one's the truth.

Both.

Neither.

He's only being nice, I tell myself.

One by one, we emerge into a chasm: a wide, low-ceilinged room, tipped on its side to form a new box canyon. It's laid out like a town square, with shops and food dispensers along the perimeter. Benches sprout sideways out of the left-hand wall, and the right-hand wall's divided by windows that show off a glittering black void. Half-way up, crossing the chasm like a pipe, is the cylindrical lift shaft that runs down the habitation arm's spine (our goal).

Open space prickles at my feet, at my back. We're old-timey explorers descending into an undiscovered cave, with nothing but oil lanterns and pith helmets for protection. My arms ache at the merest thought of more effort.

"Zero-g was more fun," Izzy sighs.

"This is a different kind of fun," Marko says. "Like rock-climbing, or hiking. Alright, let's figure out how to reach these lifts."

We could _probably_ monkey ourselves across the benches and tables, or set up an elaborate Tarzan swing scenario, none of which sounds particularly appealing. Small space stations don't assume a gravity direction for this exact reason, but on bigger scales, it's hard to design a minor city with that much architectural flexibility.

"Izzy, can you send your drone out? We need light," Alex says.

"Way ahead of you." She whispers a couple of words in its ear, then drops it into a hover. "Great vlog material, by the way. This chiaroscuro lighting? Chef's kiss."

"I'm glad hanging off the side of a very tall room is good for your social media."

"Me _too_."

The drone bobs between chairs and tables, scribbling shadows across the abyss. It illuminates the layer of detritus at the bottom, spilled drinks, overturned trays, a backpack soaked in what I hope is tomato sauce. An empty suit, lying prone atop the exposed lift shaft.

The suit moves.

Another suit pops up from behind a waist-high bench.

People, materialising from the undergrowth like ghosts. As if they were already waiting. As if they knew we'd be here.

Suddenly there are four, their weapons trained on us, the closest twenty metres away, hanging from a rappel.

<Don't move,> she broadcasts. <No one has to get hurt.>

Her visor is dark, opaque.

"Up!" Izzy hisses. "Climb up! Go!"

"No way, we're sitting ducks!" Alex says. "Hanging ducks! Which is worse!"

"Maybe we should follow their orders," Marko says tersely.

"Yeah nah, I don't know I'd go _that_ far."

Nothing happens, for a long moment.

"Ducks can fly, though," Izzy says. "We can drop! Drop super-fast, there's a way out at the bottom. See? No, don't look! Don't make it obvious."

"Maybe we should follow their orders," Marko says again. He swallows.

If only there was time to make a spreadsheet of pros and cons.

I look down.

I look up.

How much is surprise worth, in these situations?

<Don't move,> the closest repeats. <You're coming with us.>

<Where?> Alex asks.

<Somewhere safe.>

<Excuse me, but you don't look 'safe'.>

<...Neither do you.>

"Three," Izzy whispers to us.

"Are you _sure_?" Marko whispers back.

"Two," Izzy says.

<You, kid at the bottom – you go first. When I say so, start moving, nice and slow. No one has to get hurt, but you _will_ get hurt if—>

The cable breaks.

It's loose in my hands. I fall, away from the wall.

I reach at nothing.

There are stars above me.

Marko's falling above me.

I feel someone grip my forearm but they're gone, and even at one-third gravity I'm building up speed and my brain's stuck on 'falling!!!!' instead of doing something about it, not that there is anything I can do about the awful out-of-control violence in my stomach, and I bend my arms and legs and twist around and—

Impact.

I land on my side.

My teeth slam together.

It hurts, but less terribly than I was expecting (I can thank my suit for that). Marko hits the wall next to me, his legs splayed across mine; Izzy's lying in a heap on a countertop. Pile of bodies. I cough something up.

"Get up," says a voice. Not sure who it is. Maybe it's in my head. I force myself onto hands and knees, thoughts full of stars. Alex is stumbling towards a half-open security shutter at the bottom of the wall. Sideways, there's just enough room to squeeze past. It's the kind of door that reminds me of nuclear power stations, 'containment protocols active' stencilled in flickering red holograms.

That's when the gunfire starts.

Superheated plasma hits the security gate, making it glow as Marko sneaks through. He kicks it shut. Sparks fly.

"This is why I have bloody trust issues!" Alex shouts. "It's always like, 'oh, we aren't gonna hurt you' but somebody always end up _shooting at us!"_

There's only one way to go, so we take it: down the hall, towards a pair of ID scanners. We vault through, and sirens come to life.

< _Unauthorised access_ >

< _Do not proceed beyond this point_ >

I'm trampling signs beneath my boots. 'Illumination Labs' in fluorescent yellow. 'Clearance Level 5,' surrounded by red stripes. There's shouting to our rear, the sound of sizzling metal.

Another sign: 'tachyonic shielding ahead. no quantum processors past this point.'

Are MeshPals quantum processors?

Guess we'll find out.

More doors, more security gates, surrounded by thick smoke. Unmoving humanoid shapes, sitting against the wall. One's a bot but the rest are human, trickles of blood behind their helmets.

Best to ignore it.

The middle gate's jammed open by wreckage and we scale the lowest to reach it, clambering up, through, into another room that is currently _distinctly_ on fire. It's an office, no, a bedroom, for some reason protected by as much bio-security as a prison. Flames leap from the sleeping pod to the ceiling, licking through a hole in the wall. My suit shrieks in protest, flashing temperature and air quality warnings all over my visor. Choking black smoke makes it hard to see.

"We can't get through here!" Alex shouts.

"Well, we can't exactly go back either!" Marko replies. "Not after we—"

There's another door, though – in what for us is the ceiling.

"Help me up!" Izzy says.

Marko and Alex grab one foot each, give her an extra boost. She buttons at the door controls.

I look back at the security gate. Through the swirling smoke, the flickering light, I can see figures approaching.

Uh oh.

I head back to the shutter, tripping on a glob of half-melted polymer. Somebody was trying to close it, I think, but it's jammed open by a rubbish bin. 

I grab the bin. It's stuck fast. Figures closer, now, three, four, five of them, sprinting towards us. A plasma bolt sparks off the floor at my feet. I duck behind the bin and start kicking it instead, kicking, kicking, throwing my whole weight forwards and suddenly it cannons outward like my foot's a catapult and the shutter slams shut three inches from my nose. 

"Finn! Here!"

They've gotten the other door open. Marko's hanging through it, arm outstretched, Izzy and Alex holding onto his legs. I run towards him and jump. He pulls me up and I wriggle into the doorway, rolling onto solid ground.

New room.

More fire.

Another bedroom of sorts – observation room? – containing a sleeping pod, a desk, one wall that's entirely transparent shielding. Behind the shielding is a control room filled with consoles. Flames writhe, attacking with blue-tinged fury. Stations aren't supposed to burn like this; they're made from nonflammable materials and there should be plenty of fire suppression systems. Can't see much evidence of that now, though. My suit says that the air's hitting 300°C and is also _very_ toxic.

"Help me with this!" Alex says. She's ripped a locker from the wall, trying to drag it on top of the door we came through. We each take a corner, drop it in place.

"Is locking ourselves in with a fire a _great_ idea?" Marko asks, panting.

"At least the fire's not trying to kill us, like, specifically. Wait— W-T- _eff?_ "

There's a label on the sleeping pod, curled from the heat. It says:

'Marko Niememin'

"That's you. Right?" Alex asks.

Marko stares, even paler than usual. "...Yeah."

"Why's your name on it?"

"I don't know."

"Are these our rooms? They don't look like our rooms. Why's one wall see-through?—"

Izzy snaps a picture. "Run now, talk later!"

There's an air vent in the left-hand wall.

Before we go, the locker catches my eye.

I wrench it open. Stowed at the bottom, there's a fire extinguisher. Pathetically small. Better than nothing. I clip it onto my belt and follow the others through the vent, tumbling out into yet another sparse bedroom. It's a mirror of the one prior; the window looks onto the same control room inferno. 

One difference, however, is that there aren't any more doors. Or air vents.

The sleeping pod says:

'Kei Tadashi'

"Okay that _can't_ be a coincidence," Marko says.

"Where the _heck_ do we go?" Izzy asks. "This better not become a literal dead end!"

"Lie low till they give up searching for us?" Alex suggests.

Marko shakes his head. "Even with the suits, we'll be roasted alive in ten minutes."

"I did find this," I say, holding up the extinguisher.

Alex snorts. "That could barely extinguish my six-year-old cousin's birthday cake."

"It's not supposed to be for situations this bad—"

"I know, I know, it was half a compliment. Big party. Huge bloody cake."

"What if we break the glass?" Izzy asks.

"I bet that shit's bulletproof," Alex says. "So unless..."

Izzy whips out a plasma cutter. "Before anyone asks, I stole it from a dead lady. Does anyone know how to use—"

It comes alive in her hand, birthing a short white flame.

"Never mind! Finn, come on."

Alex and Marko work on blocking the vent behind us while Izzy touches her cutter to the glass, creating a starburst of intense sparks. My visor automatically darkens but even then we both have to turn away; Izzy can only occasionally glance at her hands, which is probably dangerous, but at this point, who cares. She draws a wobbly human-sized circle, the material rippling in protest. I think I'm three minutes from drowning in my own sweat.

"How's it going?" Alex asks.

"Nearly done... done!" She kicks at the window and it shudders and falls into the control room, briefly smothering a few tongues of flame. I lean through and spray the extinguisher left, right, up, down. The flames wither back, giving us a few square metres of breathing room. I step through the hole, still spraying; the vapour sticks to my visor and I wipe it away, leaving streaky finger-marks. In the control room proper it's even hotter, my suit complaining that it really, really can't handle this for much longer.

I look back. "Which way!?"

Alex points vaguely ahead of us. I look across the computer consoles, tilted on their sides, the fields of blackened office chairs melted into twisted heaps. We could climb across some of the desk risers, or... honestly, I can barely see through the smoke.

I start inching forwards, wondering how much the extinguisher's got left, wondering how much time we've got left. I actually _feel_ hot, now, the suit's coolant an uncomfortably warm bath. I step across the gap between two rows of consoles, glimpsing the raging blaze below. Electrical sparks dance around my feet.

There's a door on the far side.

Can't tell if it leads someplace safe or not.

The extinguisher runs out. I spray it ineffectually a few more times, then clip it onto my belt.

I look behind me. Izzy's right there, then Alex, then Marko.

"Which way?" I ask again.

"Just keep going!" Izzy says.

" _Where_?"

"Forwards!"

Fire consumes the console ahead of me and I dart past, my legs burning. The air temperature's up to 500 degrees.

This isn't going to work.

"It's getting worse!" Marko shouts.

"No kidding!" Alex retorts.

"No, look!" The grey suits have arrived at the window – not the section we cut through, but one room before. They've seen us.

One suit starts shooting the window shield.

Marko's stock still, staring at the glass. At the hijackers.

"Crap!" Izzy hisses. "Thecrapinthehat!"

"Why the _hell_ are they still chasing us!" Alex asks desperately. "Can't they leave us alone? We're effing _dead_ anyway!"

This isn't going to work. Think, Finn—

"Izzy?" I tap her shoulder.

"What?" She whirls around, eyes wide.

"Cut through here." I touch the surface beside us, which used to be the floor.

"Oh! Okay. Okayokayokay." She gets to work, the plasma cutter birthing a new sun, piercing flashes coming from the window as the hijackers force their way in with gunfire. Something big and grey comes falling through the smoke, hitting another desk, crashing loudly to the floor far below.

"Hurry, Izzy," Alex says.

"I know."

"Hurry, Izzy!"

"I know!"

She makes a hole barely big enough to crawl through, right as the shielding behind us shatters. Marko screams as the first plasma bolt arcs over our heads.

I wriggle through, on my stomach. It's a maintenance crawlspace between sectors, a metre across but any number of metres tall, a sea of orange and swirling embers, but – there's an opening to another corridor in the opposite wall. Izzy's already crossed over and she reaches out to help me, my feet slipping for a stomach-churning instant. Then comes Alex, then Marko, leaning on each other drunkenly. Plasma bolts pepper the gap, each one a high-frequency bird call raising hairs on our necks.

The hallway ends. We emerge into an enormous ceramic cylinder: fifteen metres in diameter, thirty metres long. Usually it'd stand upright but now it's on its side. Thick metal girders form octagonal supports for enormous pipes run its length, spiralling from a tank at the far end. Electrical boxes too, oddly-coloured sparks leaping between silvery rails, tracing a bull's charge of china-shop destruction from end to end. Most exits appear blocked by containment doors, fire encroaching on all sides. Warm water swirls around our feet, dotted with ash.

<Tachyon shielding failure: sector evacuation in progress>.

A buckled catwalk spans the drum's width, now an oversized ladder.

Alex kicks it. It squeaks, but holds. "Seems safe," she sighs. "Here goes nothin'."

She starts climbing, gripping both railings for support. It's not _quite_ vertical, but close; she jinks around the most mangled section and makes it to the top. Izzy's next, with the delicacy and speed of a medium-sized seal (not much of the former, a surprising amount of the latter). As she reaches the summit, I hear a metallic _pop!_

_Pop!..._

_Pop!..._

_Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop—_

With an ear-wrangling _screeeeech_ the catwalk tears free, tilting, twisting until it crashes to the ground beside us. Rivets scatter from our suits like rain.

"Neat," Marko says.

" _I'm okay!_ " Izzy shouts. " _I'm okay. Mostly._ "

Maybe Ferdinand could scale the sides of the cylinder, but I definitely can't, and any other easily-accessible doors are blocked by sheets of rippling flame.

Think, Finn.

"What do you think is in these pipes?" I ask Marko.

"Probably not water." He shrugs.

"But this looks like a cryogenic cooling system, which would be liquid helium, or nitrogen, or..."

"Yeah, yeah, you're totally right. As long as it's not petrol. Alex? Can you open any valves up there?"

" _I'll check."_

Our closest pipe is a metre up the drum. It's thick as a walrus, glinting silver, one opening labelled 'coolant exhaust.' Marko and I grab a valve; at first it barely budges, but every turn is easier and easier and—

 _Hissss... clunk!_ Clear liquid floods from above, almost driving me to my knees. Steam fills the air, shrieking violently, so thick I can barely see Marko right next to me. Our own valve shears open and more coolant showers outward, some flames smothered, others beaten back by choking vapour.

" _Did that help? You guys alive?"_ Izzy asks.

Apparently, yes. Every surface is slick with new condensation, knee-deep in coolant.

Even better, I see a way out. 

An exit part-way up the cylinder.

"Finn and I have an exit," Marko says. "We'll try and meet up with you."

" _I'll keep blasting Mesh pings so you know where we are_ ," Izzy replies. _"Better hurry, more creeps are coming down the path."_

He puts his arm around my shoulder briefly, for relief, or encouragement, or simple human friendliness. I stop myself from wanting to shrink away. Things like this shouldn't make me jumpy, especially when it's something I might... want?

He smiles at me, beside me, and my heart skips. My skin shivers.

I smile back, frozen.

"We got this," he says. "You and me."

Far out. I wish this moment could be longer. Wish I knew what he was thinking.

He lets go.

I swallow.

I mean, I do like girls.

I like boys too, though.

And even though I _don't_ like heights, I don't mind this obstacle-course stuff.

Exploring.

I like exploring.

Preferably under less time pressure.

I clamber onto the pipe, still slippery. From here I can reach an electrical switchboard – pretty thin, but it holds my weight – then a girder that forms a frame for the other equipment. I edge along it as the incline grows steeper, then lever myself onto the next coolant pipe. A nearby ladder heads in the wrong direction but it's still useful as a foothold towards the next makeshift outcropping.

'Illumination Detector B', the wall says, in five-foot stencils.

I wonder what it detects.

Something expensive, I bet.

Thirty seconds later I'm standing at the exit. Marko climbs up behind me, muscles working in his back.

Two hijackers appear at the bottom of the drum.

Unfortunately, we've made it a whole lot easier for them to chase us.

Our exit route runs straight through half a dozen small laboratories, cramped, labyrinthine, rooms merging unto other rooms, climbing under tables and benches. At the far end, there's a slightly bigger area, with screens – lots of screens – and a couple of onyx, coffin-esque boxes surrounded by semicircular metal rings in the centre. There are piles of assorted wreckage on the floor, with crates and boxes and the complete contents of several cupboards emptied out by the inconsistent gravity.

One doorway – to the left – is blocked by flames.

But, to the right, there's also an elevator.

Marko stabs the button.

Nothing happens.

"We should... we should hide," I gulp.

Marko looks at the coffins, but I feel that's too obvious. I take a silvery insulation blanket from the floor.

"Get under this," I say.

"Okay, ah... where?"

"Lie on the floor. Trust me. What you do, is put it over a whole bunch of stuff, and make it look like it's covering something else – a bit of equipment maybe, not a person. I won a pretty epic game of tag once by doing this. It blends in." The other option I like is hiding up high, since people often won't look up, but I can't see any good options.

Marko takes the blanket and arranges himself inside a shelf of shattered test tubes. I find another blanket and drape it half over a box, then curl up underneath with some data drives for company. My face is resting on a screen, still warm; the image switches every few seconds. First, a big, open chamber, a huge black circle in the middle. Then, a view of shifting colours, like a screensaver.

The trouble is, if we do get found this looks _very_ stupid (because it is?). It's worked before, though. It's worked before.

I see a boot step into the room.

Then another.

Two bad guys.

At first, they're still.

Then, they start searching.

Step. Step. The crunch of glass underfoot.

The sound of a cupboard being opened.

These people, whoever they are, don't seem _that_ well-equipped or well-trained. 

Perhaps, like us, they're out of their depth.

I hear the footsteps walk around me, then behind me.

Either we get found, or we don't.

I'm too exhausted to worry.

Step.

Step.

Step, out of the room, down the hallway.

They're gone.

I wait another ten seconds, then slide free.

Marko sits up, looking both relieved and slightly incredulous. He gives me a thumbs up.

I grin. 

My boots are falling leaves as we creep to the elevator. There's a ping in my Meshpal from Izzy and Alex, above us and to the left. Not far.

"How do we get this open?" Marko whispers.

"I'm... not sure."

Marko tries jamming his fingers into the gap between the doors. Maybe we could—

The footsteps are back.

They're not in view yet but they will be in two seconds and there's nowhere to hide except behind those two jet-black coffins.

Which we do. Crouching, breath held, with trembling, sweaty palms.

Sometimes, Finn, you're an idiot. There's one exit, of COURSE they'd come back if they didn't find anybody.

Idiot!

Would they realise something's changed? Would they know?

The steps burst forwards, clearing either side of the entrance.

I imagine them gripping their weapons a little tighter. I imagine their eyes settling on potential hiding spots.

I look at the other doorway, barred by flames, painting the side of my suit bright yellow. Could we have escaped through there?

I glance at Marko. I see him raise both fists, steady his feet.

Don't know what he's planning.

He's calm.

How the _hell_ is he calm.

I unclip my fire extinguisher.

I can use it as a distraction... if—

Marko leaps.

I spray the fire extinguisher blindly, hoping there's some left, then chuck uselessly it at the first shape I see. Marko goes low through the vapour, rising up to meet the first suit's chest with his shoulder, knocking them back, and they fall, and Marko stamps down on their wrist and there's a crack and they let go of their pistol which Marko reaches for but the suit jerks sideways and throws him off and pistol skitters sideways across the myriad of viewscreens, towards the flames, and now I'm out in the open trying to help but I haven't genuinely hit anybody since sixth grade and I think Marko's shouting at my to run back the way we came and I do, sort of, but there's a blur to my right and something hard and rigid grabs my hips, it's an arm, and I'm yanked and chucked sideways into the closest wall which used to be the ceiling. I hit it face first, mid-air, slide to the ground. My skull's smashed my visor. I can't breathe. I roll over. A suit's coming towards me. Marko's doing his best to keep the other one pinned down, knees planted, one arm trapped at a painful angle—

My MeshPal _pings!_

A bright red suit comes diving _through_ the flames blocking the other door—

—it trips—

—falls—

—next to the discarded pistol—

—grabs it and chucks it to Marko. "Catch!"

Marko reaches, snatches it from the air with three fingers. Another red shape bursts through the flames, wreathed in fire, cursing over the Mesh like a electronic devil. Marko points the pistol at the suit on the ground, who's not moving but the other grey suit still is, towards Alex and Izzy instead of me who're screaming bloody murder in twelve different ways.

"Do not move. DO NOT MOVE!" Marko shouts, and his voice quivers with such _fury_ that I obey.

Grey Suit #2 doesn't.

Marko pulls the trigger. A crackling blue lance misses them by centimetres. Behind them, a screen explodes.

The suit stops.

Turns around.

Sees a kid wielding a gun with eyes crazier than Ned Kelly.

"Drop it," Marko snarls.

The suit looks at each of us in turn.

At their companion on the ground.

Slowly, they put their weapon on the floor.

Izzy nicks it and hurries over to Marko, looking marginally less intimidating but just as ready to effing kill someone. Our two pursuers – which I realise is only half of them – press up against the right-hand wall, by the lift, suddenly distinctly wary.

I move behind Marko, standing by his left shoulder.

He's still.

Very still.

His pistol looms, menacing and black.

I can't believe this is happening.

Neither can Alex, I think.

A drip of orange goo falls from the ceiling, sizzling like lava when it hits the floor.

"Okay," Marko says. "I think we're going to have a chat."

"I don't think so," Suit #1 replies.

"I do."

His voice is even.

Just a regular Wednesday night.

Another drip. The roof's sagging, glowing dull red.

"You're that guy," Alex murmurs. "The first bloody arsehole we ran into. Karen, or something."

He glares darkly. "Khorin."

"Corrin?"

" _Khorin._ " Sweat stains his skin, his hair thick and wild, but he still looks absurdly young to be chasing us around a space station; realistically, he could be my older brother. (Considering how things've gone today, I hope he isn't.)

Marko swings his gun to the other suit. "What about you?"

"A— Aralia," she stutters. She's a bit older, tall, thin, eyes like a rabbit's.

"Okay, Aralia. Stay right by the lift, right there. Now, why're you trying to blow up this space station?"

She swallows. "That's... not your concern."

Marko shoots at her feet. Another screen, turned to slag. "Pretty sure it _is_ our concern. So, I'd like you to _answer me_."

It finishes as a growl. The air's charged with static, a promise of violence.

Suddenly, I feel a tickle against my glove.

I look down, and see...

Marko's left hand.

Pawing at mine.

I open my fingers.

He grabs mine tightly.

His hand's behind his back and I'm standing right by him, so I don't think anybody's noticed, I don't think they can see, but I can definitely _feel_ it. My heart thumps in my chest.

His gaze hasn't wavered. The pistol hasn't wavered. Five fingers, strong as a vice.

"It will destroy everything," Khorin says, nearly spitting. "This. Us. _EVERYTHING_. That's why."

"What will?" Marko asks.

"Illumination."

"Is that what the monsters are?"

"Don't know. Maybe."

"You _do_ know. You fucking know."

"We don't!" Aralia interrupts. "We don't know any more than you do. Please, believe us."

"Okay, then why are you doing this? Who hired you? If Illumination's so dangerous, why can't you explain, right now, _what it is and what the hell you're doing here_?"

Another superheated drop falls from the ceiling. I can feel Marko's heartbeat through his fingers, _ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump_. 

"Can't explain because then you'll be a problem," Khorin spits again. "You'll be my problem. You'll be Maritime's problem. Don't want to be her problem. Better this way."

Alex rolls her eyes. "Oh, come _on._ "

"Plausible deniability? Ever heard of it?" Aralia says. "Listen, we aren't... fanatics, or evil, or..." She shakes her head, pleading. "If you had the chance to stop the grey plague from being created, fifteen years ago, would you have taken that chance? Knowing how many people it consumed? Would you have sacrificed your own life, or freedom, or your conscience to prevent that? I promise we, won't hurt you—"

"Then why'd you keep trying to kill us?!" Izzy asks incredulously.

"Capture," Khorin grunts. "Not kill."

" _Really_."

"The station... it's preparing to collide with Saturn," Aralia says. "It'll burn up into nothing. But there won't be anybody on it, we aren't killing anybody. We've tried not to. We're only destroying their work, the experiment."

"But you can't leave them alive, either," Marko says. "That doesn't fit. The people are the project. Their knowledge IS the project."

"No no no, they've been taken off the station, and they'll be dealt with to make sure the same things can't happen again, but there won't be any more casualties if you come with us _now_ —" She's speaking faster and faster, holding our her hand.

Marko swings the gun to Khorin again. "Even if I trust you, I definitely don't trust _him_."

There's a glint in Khorin's gaze.

A proudness to his jaw.

He moves one foot forwards.

Marko comes _this_ close to pulling the trigger. "Don't."

Marko's hand clutches mine.

Perhaps... perhaps everyone needs a lifeline.

A heart to hold close.

I'm not even sure he realises he's doing it.

More and more of the ceiling's glowing red, which is ominous, and I also don't _like_ that we're trying to hold two people hostage because that seems like the kind of thing that can turn bad in an instant. "We should probably move," I murmur.

"In a second." Izzy brings up her map of Starfish, the one with the blue dots showing bio-signatures. "You said you're taking everyone off the station. But _these_ people aren't off the station. Look at this big group, near the docks – there must be like, thirty? Forty?"

"They'll be offloaded," Aralia says. "They're among the last."

"Where are you sending them?"

"We make sure they're... clean. Then we drop them off on Titan."

"Make sure they're 'clean?' What's _that_ mean?"

"We, we— I can't say—"

Suddenly, the entire group of forty dots just...

...vanishes.

Five seconds.

Ten.

"What'd you do?" Izzy asks.

Aralia shakes her head. "No, no, that wasn't us—"

Khorin narrows his eyes.

"What happened?" Alex asks. "Are they... dead?"

Izzy's white. "Could be the signal's blocked, or they're being spoofed, but... the data says they're gone."

"What happened?" Marko hisses.

"Who knows?" Khorin says."

"What's so important about Illumination? What _is_ Illumination?"

"You're saying it wrong."

"Then how am I supposed to say it?"

He smiles. "Two words: 'illumi, nation'. Like 'light, dark,' or 'life, death'."

_Whumph!_

The ceiling splits.

A curtain of glowing liquid floods into the room, thick, glutinous, blinding, slicing us apart from our prisoners. Instinctively, I shield my eyes; it eats at the floor like acid, flowing towards out boots, the room consumed in shimmering heat and I think the entire thing's about to collapse. It's hard to see, hard to do anything. Suddenly, we're in the crater of a volcano.

Maybe that coolant _was_ important.

Khorin's grin floats above the chaos.

Marko shoots at his feet – once, twice – a strangled cry escaping from his throat.

Can't see much at all, now.

I pull on Marko's hand.

"This way!" Alex shouts. She stumbles back, retracing the steps of her dramatic entrance with Izzy, through the flames blocking the other door. "Hurry the _fuck_ up! Leave them!"

I tug Marko's arm, hard, harder, until finally, he turns and follows. I glance back to make sure Khorin's still there; don't know, is the answer. He can't chase us though, not unless he can swim through literal lava. My suit screeches as we slip and slide through the worst of it, into the fire, then out into open air, Marko holding the pistol like he suddenly doesn't know what to do with it, like somebody used it to kill his brother.

We enter the hallway.

There's an air vent here with the cover already removed.

We climb inside.

I start crawling.


	14. Finn

Air vents are more fun than being burned alive, but only barely. This one's long, cramped, and dirty, twisting and turning like a blood vessel, barely large enough for us to crawl through on hands and knees like an awkward four-person centipede. Sweat coats my face, stinging my eyes, forcing new tears that blur my vision as I try to keep pace with Izzy's wombat-esque gait.

"How far are we from 104?" Marko asks, coughing. He hasn't stopped coughing for a good long while.

"Literally, like, two hundred metres," Izzy says. "Less."

"Thank _god_."

"We were honestly nearly there before we decided to sprint head-first into frickin' hell."

"For good reasons," Alex replies.

"For _reasons_ , sure. But good ones? Eeehhh."

We keep going.

Occasionally, we pass a grate, or a trapdoor, revealing a corridor or storeroom.

Ahead of me, Izzy stops.

"What is it?" Alex asks.

There's a grate another half-metre forward. Cautiously, I poke my head over it, but I almost don't need to. Purple light shines through it, throwing bars of shadow across the vent.

I look down.

There are ghosts, floating in the hallway.

Not moving.

Not changing.

Just... floating.

There's four of them, indistinct ripples and blobs, human-sized, a mixture of indigo and violet. Their otherworldly light has a saturated, impressionistic edge.

I stare at them.

I want to get lost in them.

I think they want to get lost in me.

Falling into a painting.

I bite my lip. Clear head, Finn.

"I wonder what their senses are," Izzy whispers suddenly.

"Shhh!" Alex whispers.

"They can't hear our radios, otherwise they'd have noticed us. So... how do they 'see' us? Can they? Hear? Smell? See our bodyheat?"

Suddenly, my MeshPal glitches. Ferdinand goes fuzzy, for a second.

The ghosts waver.

"Maybe we should just creep past real stealthily," Alex says. "Unless we want to be stuck in this bloody air vent forev—"

* * *

—look down at my gloves. I'm surprised I didn't tear a hole them.

Wait.

Why am I surprised?

I look around.

We're in a long, oval-shaped enclosure.

Do I recognise it? Where are we?

"Heeeeey hey hey hey. Did anybody else feel that?" Izzy asks.

"Yeah, I..." Alex groans. "What just happened?"

"This is it!" Marko says. "It was _exactly_ like this – what happened to Finn and me when we ran into the monsters before."

"Oh, so this is what that feels like?" Alex says. "The memory thing?"

"Pretty much."

"Ugh, I hate it."

We're in a central access point for dozens and dozens of dorm rooms, each with identical, arch-shaped doors; walking across it is like circling a coliseum tipped on its side. The enclosure's also a garden, of sorts, with groves of trees growing sideways from sunken platforms. The ceiling is split by an enormous central dome, providing a view of the stars.

Hundreds of stars. Thousands. Billions. We're in Saturn's shadow, looking at the centre of the galaxy. The world is silvery, barely there, its colours replaced by shades of grey and the occasional starlit glint. Verdant leaves splay themselves against the dome, grasping at every last photon.

Marko points at an open vent far above us. "Maybe we dropped down from there?"

"If that's the case, we definitely aren't getting back up," Alex says, scratching her chin. "If you can, you should probably join a circus." She checks her arms and legs for injuries. "We're okay, right? My leg's still hurt pretty bad, but the lights didn't... do anything weird. Weird­-ER _._ "

"I _feel_ okay," Izzy says. "I think I'm okay."

"Everyone remember the fire?"

"Oh, Alex, you're so funny," Izzy giggles. "As if it won't haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life."

"Fire isn't so bad, as nightmares go," Marko says. "Often, it's.." He pauses. "I had a dream once where everyone who knew they were, in their past lives, and it caused _so_ much drama and uproar. You had to list your notable past lives on your job applications, and there was a ton of Mesh discourse like 'is it morally acceptable to like someone for their past life?' and there were articles with headlines like 'how to cope if you find our you were a Nazi.' Celebrities would be called out and stuff, and people would dox your past lives. Ariana Grande was Stalin."

"Was that the nightmare part?" Alex asks.

"Well, not really. After that it turned into a whole thing about space communism."

"Huh. I feel you like you were going to say something else originally."

Marko shrugs. "Is it bad I didn't?"

"Nah, I'm kinda into space communists. Annyywwaaayyy, where's our meeting point? We still on track?"

I pull up the map and do some visualisation. My brain's still searching for missed connections, like a spiderweb that someone's just walked through, flopping about on the breeze.

Beside me, there's a _hiss_ as Alex takes off her helmet.

It's safe.

The slightest humid, stale breeze against my cheeks is better than any cold shower. I wipe my hand through my hair, getting nothing but sweat in return.

"Ah, man, that's nice," Izzy says. "Kinda hate these suits. They're stuffy."

"They're _miles_ better than what space suits used to be," Alex replies. "I'm surprised astronauts could even move in those things."

"It turns out global crises are good for technological development," Marko says. "Nothing like impending doom to force us to cooperate."

It's true that humanity's come a long way. Seventy years ago, we could barely get humans out of Earth orbit, and now, we have forests on Saturn.

Trees, at least.

As we walk, I reach out to touch the leaves, plucking one to scrunch between my fingers (which I'm pretty sure is a universal law of human behaviour). There are blankets here, and snack wrappers, and toys scattered around, the remnants of some kids having an 'outdoors' sleepover. The trees aren't thick enough or plentiful enough for proper camping, but it's better than staring up at a metre-high bunk every night. The air still smells earthy, smoky, like forest regrowth after a bushfire.

Marko's fingers brush against the pistol on his hip, as if checking an old scar.

The silence is full of expectations.

Mostly mine.

"How... how are you doing?" I murmur.

He turns, smiles, falling into step. "Yeah, alright. Pretty good. Pretty tired."

The trouble with starting conversations is that you need to know what to say next. 'You were... pretty intimidating. Back there. In the lab."

"I _felt_ pretty intimidating," he laughs.

"I thought you'd actually kill those guys, for a second."

"That's the point, isn't it? To make you think I would. To make _them_ think I would." He shrugs. "Guess it worked."

"Oh, yeah. It worked. So... that's cool, I guess." I don't think Marko's actually 'pretty good' but I can only ask the question, which, let me tell you, is more than I'd do for most people. He's not really looking at me, so it's hard to know what he's thinking.

"Thanks, Finn," he says suddenly.

"Oh. For what?"

"Just in general."

He reaches out, as if to touch my shoulder, then doesn't. Instead he cracks his knuckles.

He sends an emoji over the Mesh: a plain old smiley face.

I reply with a happy robot head.

I notice that Izzy's watching us, but quickly, she turns away, perhaps due to a small, wet shape that's flopping about on one of the doors.

"Is that a Saturnian squid?" Alex whispers.

With a cough, it launches itself sloppily into the air. Its body is made up of two globular lobes on either side of a central flower of ridged, rubbery organs. Two feathery appendages sprout from each flank, while another collection of shorter, thicker tentacles hangs underneath. Its colour is faded pink, with electric blue highlights around a central fin. It manages to stabilise and starts gliding in a wide circle, up and around the enclosure.

"That's not supposed to be here, right?" Alex asks, looking at Marko.

"Am I... supposed to know?"

"I mean, that was your project, wasn't it? Studying the squids?"

"Just because it was my research project doesn't mean I know anything about them – but yeah, it's probably escaped from somewhere."

"I wonder if we'll run into a Saturnian snake," Izzy says. " _That'd_ be a fun experience."

Um, no thank you. Swimming-pool-sized flying electric centipedes should stay in BBC documentaries, where they can be appreciated in the company of virtual David Attenborough.

The squid isn't the only thing here, though.

Distant red light shines through the trees.

My sweat turns to ice.

"Shit!" Alex hisses. "That's—"

"Behind us, too," Marko mutters.

Red ahead, blue behind.

"This took a frickin' turn," Izzy says. "Maybe they're attracted to Marko's weird-ass dreams—"

"We should hide," he says. "Finn and I hid from one before. It got very close, but it didn't seem to know where we were..."

I nod.

Hiding spots.

Perhaps one of these dorm rooms is unlocked, but I'm not about to start trying them only to get trapped in the open. The trees also aren't thick enough to provide cover on their own, but Alex goes for it anyway, grabbing a branch and starting to... climb? She uses the branches like an outsized ladder, slips suddenly and hisses with pain as her leg buckles underneath her.

My gaze finds a kid's blanket, crumpled by our feet.

It's fluffy. It's got Harry Potter on it.

Probably won't work twice.

Instead, I go to the gardens. They're planted in sunken boxes with a raised lip which, with the station tipped on its side, forms a small, dirt-covered ledge I can lie on. There's enough bushes and ferns that if I lie on my back, the vegetation droops and shields me from view (unless someone – or something – happens to crouch right next door).

Marko's still out there.

I think he's picked up the blanket.

"In here," I hiss.

In takes him a second to spot me. Good sign.

But again, I'm an idiot. The ledge is barely big enough for me, let alone both of us. His eyes flick to the approaching red glow. Shafts of colour glimmer against leaves.

No time.

"Sorry," he whispers, "but I think I'm gonna have to—"

"Okay," I murmur.

He bends down and basically lies on top of me. He's pretty heavy, and it's cramped, and it hurts, but—

It'll do. For a minute or two.

Dirt.

Leaves.

Starlight.

Shallow breaths.

I can't really move.

His weight, pressing down on me; the contours of his suit, mismatched to mine.

His neck, half-resting on my shoulder but very carefully not.

The tickle of warm air as he breathes, damp against the tiny hairs on my cheek.

(Well, isn't this awkward.)

The slightest movement generates jolts of electricity and I try to manifest the stillness of one of those Japanese rock gardens. If I do, this moment won't turn bad. If I do... it might last.

Legs. Chest. Stomach. Sparks going off inside me.

Don't like them.

Don't hate them either.

Strange thoughts.

The thought of what Marko would look like in the dark.

Without.

His clothes on.

Stupid, hormonal thoughts.

It's going to make me vomit.

Lights approach through the trees above, scarlet storms against my eyelids. There's something on my glove – my left glove, pinned by my side. I think it's Marko's hand. It has to be. Not so long ago, it was holding a gun. Not so long ago, I was standing behind him, and his other hand was...

I don't know what comes over me.

I shift my wrist, and try and take his fingers in mine. I try to say that–

Marko jerks away, like he's been burned.

"Finn, stop," he whispers.

I freeze.

My fingers are ablaze, and my face is too. I close my eyes. Squeeze them shut.

Can't move. Can't breathe. Being crushed by Marko's weight. The monster's _there_ , a pulsing mist of smoky tentacles curling into itself like a demonic Mobius strip and my ears are overcome with electronic gasps, a Youtube video of an eagle's cry that's been uploaded and reuploaded ten thousand times. It whips through space, the space _between_ space, the space between Marko and my aching fingers which is no space at all.

I don't know what I'm doing.

I don't know people. Never did.

I don't have the freaking _right_ to assume anything, or...

The whirlpool's hot. I can't breathe.

I can't stand it.

I can't I can't I can't.

Sorry.

I wriggle sideways and push myself out from underneath, breaking through twigs and leaves that scratch at my face. Marko nearly falls, and I don't know what I'm thinking or _if_ I'm thinking, but I take one big giant breath as—

—I stand in the shadow of a god. It looms around me, hovering eerily. Light, divided by both infinity and leaves.

It's so close I could touch it.

I reach up and...

...do. It's not substantial but there's _something_ there, some slight resistance, a force pushing back.

The light _flares_ outward, shooting through me, through the trees, across the dorms, brighter and brighter, like stepping from a deep cave into summer – and now, there are _shapes_ here, surrounding me. A scene, from a play, if the actors and sets were merely swarms of obedient fireflies.

The fireflies dance, waves amongst the trees, a deck of light beneath me.

If I squint, I could be on the deck of a sailing ship.

Two figures stand nearby, or impressions of figures. In the distance, more glows bloom, fireflies leaping like distant supernovae.

The figures watch this display.

They are... resigned.

Disappointed.

Determined.

Miserable.

My heart aches, but I'm not sure what for.

One of the figures notices me. Glides towards me.

I take a half-step back, making sure there's still dirt under my boots.

It stops, close, ripples violently. A brand new mouth forms in its featureless visage, opening wide, wider until its entire head turns inside out and the noise that comes out sounds a lot like:

— _HEEeeellPPPP_ —

The connection snaps.

The light compresses into itself and zig-zags away, out of the trees, like it's being dragged by overstretched elastic.

Out of the room.

Out of sight.

I reach out. My hand brushes leaves.

No more fireflies.

"What the _fuck_ , Finn?" Alex shouts. "What the fuck was that?"

She starts descending from her perch but her leg slips again, and she cries out in pain, and Izzy helps her down the rest of the way. She limps to the wall and sits, the offending limb stretched out gingerly in front of her. "I need to give this thing a bloody good night's sleep."

Izzy bobs her head. "I'll try find another medkit."

I touched it.

It touched _me_.

Why?

Marko's there, standing apart, arms folded. I blush, bite down hard on my lip.

What were you thinking, Finn?

You _weren't;_ that's the problem. And that could've easily gone FAR worse than it did.

Ferdinand gives me a reproachful stare.

He knows I'm an idiot, sometimes.

He knows.

I know.

"Finn?" Alex asks again. "What... do you know what that was? Did you realise that'd happen?"

"No," I say.

"Well... okay. Then _warn_ me before you do any more stupid crap, alright? Next time, _warn_ me." She looks scared. I'm scared too. Afterimages scar my vision.

"Sorry. I – I freaked out."

I glance at Marko again.

"Honestly, I might just sit here," Alex says. "No more questions, no more theories. You guys can go find a person who knows what the hell's going on." She leans back, staring at the dome. "Fuckin' _space_ , man."

"It's not that bad," Marko grunts.

"Um. Yes it is."

He sits dismissively, slouching forwards, one foot kicking at a notch in the floor. "It makes everything far away."

"And that's good, is it?" She sighs. "Fine, gimme another minute. Then we'll go."

I take a few steps to nowhere in particular, until I'm shielded by the trees.

There's a vending machine here, nestled between two dorms. I kneel down, taking stock.

There's Shapes.

Neptune Bars too.

"Shapes pleeeaaasssee!" Izzy says, bustling past me. Her voice has an actual Doppler shift.

When I return, it's with an armful of snacks. Izzy gets her Shapes (barbecue flavour), Alex gets some chips (salt and vinegar), while Marko gets a Caramello Koala. He takes it, but with an unmistakable pause.

"Thought you liked chocolate," I say.

"I do, but... forget it."

Oh, crap.

Crap crap _crap_. I tear into the packet of Killer Pythons I got for myself, stretching one between my teeth, thinner, thinner, till it snaps.

Alex grimaces as she tests her knee.

Izzy chucks a Shape into the air, catching it in her mouth.

Marko shove his hands into his pockets, slumped, but tensed, as if he can't decide whether he wants to blend in or stand out. Troublemaker sitting outside the principal's office.

I feel hollow. Blindsided by a maths test that I thought I was well-prepared for.

Breath against my cheek.

Warmth against my chest.

I know it's stupid and I'm bringing so much outside stuff into this but I don't think I can help it. That's just how humans are, sometimes. I barely even _know_ him.

I eat my Snakes, standing apart.

Gradually, gravity evaporates: we're back in zero-g.

It makes sense to treat the floor as a floor again, as opposed to the past half-hour of rotated nonsense, so we spin until we're floating the right way up. The spatial reasoning part of my brain sighs in relief: doors where they should be, trees growing skyward, and briefly, I'm struck by the thought of making a campfire, watching smoke curl among the stars.

"Does this now... look familiar to you guys?" Alex asks. "Because this is going to sound crazy, and I've never been to Saturn in my life, but I think I've been here before." She swallows. "No, I'm _certain_ I've been here before."


	15. Alex

I stand under trees, trees under stars, digging at the point my brain is desperately trying to make.

I'm tickling an itch – an itch, inside those grey, fleshy wrinkles. A half-sneeze that doesn't want to clear itself out.

"Is something—" Izzy begins.

I raise a hand. "Wait."

I've been here before.

Definitely.

What makes me think that?

The leaves, and the window – the way it arcs over our heads, reflecting upside-down trees. The way the air basks in itself, smoke-tinged, with a biological freshness that's probably imaginary.

Tickle it. Tickle it. Dig a finger right in there.

"Alex, what—"

"Wait."

I _like_ plants. There's enough ivy hanging over my bed back home to crush me completely in the event of structural failure (solid assassination plan if you're one of my many enemies), but for once, this isn't a pang of homesickness.

If I've been here before, then...

But I _can't_ have been here. I reach forwards like one of those robots with the strangly hands, as if to pluck a memory out of thin air.

A sensation of— warmth? Uncertainty?

I groan, spewing out my frustration. "I don't know, Izzy. I honestly don't. We're stuck in what feels like the seventh circle of hell, my entire life is apparently fifty percent lies, and for _some reason_ this room's giving me déjà vu like the Fremantle Dockers whenever they lose a Grand Final. Sorry, niche reference. Anyone else get that feeling?"

Izzy nods sagely. "Yep! From dreams, mostly. When my MeshChannel reached a million subs, it was like I could predict the entire scene as it happened, right down to spilling juice on my desk. Like, I was _soooooo_ sure I'd already experienced it... but it turns out I'd just dreamed about it before. "

"Okay, I respect the stealth brag but I dunno if it's entirely relevant."

"I don't remember anything specific," Marko says.

"Ah, great," I reply. "Even more helpful."

His smile's all jaw. "You're welcome."

"I'm, uh... Sorry, that came out wrong."

"Sure." He looks away.

To be fair, there are lots of things to be annoyed/frustrated/exhausted by and most of them aren't even me. I give the room one last look, but without the terrifying, ghostly presences it's lost whatever magic it might've had. My brain's probably gummed up with too much useless _Night's Dawn_ imagery (ah, the consequences of excessively browsing horny fanart whenever you're bored at 2AM).

Trees.

Trees under stars.

A campfire?...

It could also be PTSD talking, of a sort, and I tell my MeshMate to check for abnormal thought patterns though it's supposed to do that automatically. Besides, what's 'abnormal'? Should I start actively suppressing my irrational spider phobias? (If I suppressed _every_ one of my irrational phobias there'd be none of me left, hahahahaha. Ha.)

Maybe Marko's MeshMate could suppress some of his hotness, to make it fair on everyone else.

Maybe Izzy's MeshMate should electrocute her whenever she does something annoying and YouTubey.

"Let's keep going," I say. "We're almost there."

Marko nods, hotly.

Izzy nods, YouTubily.

We leave the arboretum behind, the threat of memory still prickling at my shoulderblades. _'Run'_ floods my head, not in the sense of finish lines and medals, but an adult walking very calmly up a dark basement staircase to show they're _definitely_ not afraid of the dark. That would be _silly._

Fittingly, the next area's a gymnasium. Strange-looking torture devices – exercise machines of all sizes – are stuck to the walls, a parade of old sweat.

I hate this floaty, sideways gravity.

Have I always swung my arms this much when I walk? Was it always such a pain to stop my knees actively fighting each other?

"Alex?" Finn's voice. He's projecting a station map above one hand, hiding behind its faded orange glow.

Don't be an asshole.

Or do, if it helps.

"Yeah? What's up?"

"Are you okay?"

"Fine. I suppose." I stare at him, between the map's neon lines. He looks like a rat, honestly. Dark hair, arched nose, worried little eyes – a rat who's committed a minor house-crime and is trying to figure out how much their parents know about it. "Why?"

"What exactly did you, um, remember? Back there?"

"It just... it felt like I'd been there before," I reply. "Don't know when. Or why. Or how. But I was so _convinced,_ so certain of it that it hit me like a frickin' piano."

"Then... nothing specific?"

"Nah, that'd be too easy. Too _kind._ " A black droplet splashes from his nose, onto his chestplate. "Are _you_ okay?"

"I— huh." He touches his face. "Nosebleed. Sorry."

He deactivates the map, fading into shadow.

He seems afraid – afraid of _me_. 

Fair enough.

What's _less_ fair is that I'm being forced to solve an extremely difficult equation with nothing but bad social skills, stubbornness and half a broken pencil. I can't believe this is all such a _trope,_ too – a secret adoption? Every second story features a bloody secret adoption! It's probably required by law in fantasy author circles and I _refuse_ to be reduced to a second-rate Harry Potter ripoff. (Thank Christ I'm not an orphan too because that'd make me unpublishable.) Thinking logically, I'm sure this kind of thing _does_ happen and I'm surely not the first person to have fallen into this particular familial mess, but even so, it's EXACTLY the sort of shocking twist I'd love in _Night's Dawn_ and that idea makes me want to tear myself to pieces.

I'm swiping through the air as I walk, absently checking for cobwebs.

Old habits.

And suddenly, we're here.

Ready to meet my mother.

It's a landing not unlike any other, four doors opening from a central hub (a central nook, more accurately). My MeshMate paints rosy edges around dangers and doorways in the half-light. It's figured out that everything's rotated sideways with an alert that basically amounts to _< please stop doing whatever it is you're doing.> _

Would if I could, friend. Would if I could.

"Go on," Marko says.

Finn glances at him, then presses the buzzer by the left-most door.

Two seconds pass.

The door opens, and— there she is.

She's older, up close.

More fragile.

Jira half-steps, half-climbs through the entryway, brushing past us, a bright green glowstick in her breast pocket throwing interstellar shadows around her neck and cheekbones. She's thin, wiry like Finn, but with a swift confidence that belies her frame. A pale coat swishes about her legs. She's all angles, or just... parallel lines. Geometry.

She turns back to us. Finn steps forward, and perhaps only I notice his quiver, but she puts her arms around him, and him around her.

An obligation, I think.

Not like my parents.

He slips out of her embrace. Despite everything, a pang of envy.

The geometry's looking at me now, seeming to swim, my eyes refusing to acknowledge it as true. The green glow frames her and the coat she wears. It's all I can do stand upright, to give off the impression that I'm not coming unmoored. I wonder if she'll say anything; if there's anything she _can_ say. And yet, I'm frustrated by how my body insists on betraying me. Get a fucking _grip_ , Alex. _Come on._ I wonder if she'll hug me. I realise she's smaller than me. Feels wrong to be held down by something so small.

Instead, she holds out her hand. It hangs between us, delicate and poised.

I take it, to make sure she's real.

It is; real and cold. Her white coat swallows her like an iceberg.

"Let me help!" Izzy says, referring to the large metal case Jira's carrying.

"No – thank you." She grips it tightly. "We should be on our way. There is something I have to..." She stops herself. Her face nestles a focused blankness, a smile she barely believes in. "One exit remains safe, but it may not be for much longer." 

She starts walking.

We follow, because what else is there – a conga of confused ducklings. 

The corridor slopes downwards.

"Where are we going?" Marko asks.

"Towards the hub."

"There's something there that can help?"

"A way off the station, as I explained – one I'm confident nobody would think of, apart from other staff on the project."

"Is that the project you were called here to oversee?"

"Yes, a physics experiment. There were dangers involved, which meant precautions had to be put in place, one of which I hope to use."

Marko nods, more of his accent coming through. I like how it sounds. "What _is_ this way out? Not that it matters, but if it's dangerous—"

"We should be quieter," Jira murmurs.

"Yes, of course. Wouldn't want any monsters to hear us."

Jira doesn't smile. Or perhaps she doesn't hear.

Marko cracks his fingers, and—

* * *

—I walk down this hallway, following a boy with blonde hair.

He's smaller than Marko. Shorter. Less... tranquil.

But the hallway's identical, down to the same holographic orchids on the same fake windowsills.

Ahead is a figure in a white coat. I can't see her face.

"Are you ready?" she asks.

The lights go out.

* * *

"God-damnit," I mutter. "Déjà vu. I _swear_ I've been here before..."

"You have," Jira says. "Not _here_ , exactly, but a similar station. I tried to meet you once before; did you know that?"

"What?" She doesn't stop. "Of course I didn't _know that_ —"

"Yes, I expect you don't recall. Do you remember visiting Mars, four years ago? With your adoptive parents?"

"You sure know a lot about me," I reply, accusingly.

"We've been over this, Alex – I didn't simply forget you existed. I always kept one eye on your progress, to ensure your wellbeing."

"Yeah. Sounds like you devoted a lot of effort to it."

My suspicion helps keep the dizziness at bay.

At thirteen, I did visit Mars with my parents. We went to Olympus Mons and the Valles Marineris, which were fine (big rocks be big; more at 11) and the labyrinthine, subterranean colonies of Spirit and Opportunity. My dad was most interested in their greenhouses, and excessively questioning tour guides about crop rotations. Personally, I loved the terraforming engines – huge, conical towers belching gas into the atmosphere, the brackish, half-developed seas around their bases teeming with genetically-adapted wildlife. You could see the dream there; a story in the midst of being told.

Perhaps that's why I liked it so much.

On the way back, we stopped at an orbital station: Hourglass Station, near the moon of Phobos. And there was—

"There was an accident," Jira says. "Do you remember?"

"Yeah, nah. Not really."

"Doctors removed those memories, I suspect. For trauma's sake."

"They said it was better if I didn't know – not that _I_ had any say in it," I reply. From the few news sites my therapy AI forgot to block, I eventually discovered there'd been a problem with the station's reactor, a cascade of failed failsafes so unlikely it was barely even prosecutable. Annoyingly, my only memories were of waking up at home, weeks later, covered in suspiciously new patches of skin. Almost dying in a space explosion seemed like the kind of earth-shattering trauma I _should_ remember, or be affected by, but instead... I went back to school.

Didn't feel any different.

Of course, it seems churlish to bemoan that. Nevertheless, perhaps there _were_ some hazy memories cobwebbed through my head, because afterwards, I never much looked forward to leaving home. I'd never even gone back into space until now. There were plenty of times I could've, but... didn't.

I guess I never really thought about it.

Never really thought about lots of things.

"We'd decided – your parents and I – that I was to meet you, on that station," Jira says. "It was my workplace at the time, you understand, so we thought it a good opportunity; an appropriate time to reveal the truth. After the accident, obviously, we decided to call off the meeting. I believe your father said circumstances were— 'not swell'? In any case, your recognition of this place likely stems from that period, since both stations are very similar – same manufacturer, I believe. Truthfully, I feel quite at home here." Her face hovers, moon above a planet. "Do you recognise this too, Finn? You might, if Alex does."

"Not particularly," he says.

"You look thin. Have you been eating properly? Not just chocolate?"

"Yeah."

"I'm glad you're safe."

"...thanks."

It's the emotional authenticity of high school Shakespeare and I wanna grab both their shoulders and shake them until an actual expression falls out. (If I ran into MY parents around the next bend, we'd win a damn Oscar in comparison.)

We enter the station's medical wing, hospital rooms arranged in shell-like spirals, doorways barricaded my mismatched shelving. Plastic sheeting divides spaces into murky labyrinths, crackling as we climb through. Empty medical pods are clamped to the floor; water drips from leaking fluid bags. 

Jira stops, setting down the octagonal container she's been carrying. It has that military, utilitarian look.

"I thought we were going to—" Izzy begins.

"Escape, yes," Jira says. "One moment."

She kneels, fiddling with the apparatus inside.

It's probably a science thing.

Or, I dunno. Checking for dangerous radiation?

The shadows swarm across sterile tiling, threatening to overwhelm the little light that remains.

I tell myself to relax. I mean, she _is_ the adult in the room.

No one's looking at me to make a decision. _I_ don't have to look at me to make a decision. Instead of anguishing over our continued survival, I'm free to just... watch. And have faith. 

My hands sweep for imaginary cobwebs.

Marko takes a seat on an empty hospital pod, creaking underneath him. Even Izzy doesn't wants to talk, a silence of sharp edges. Finn just... stares. At what, I'm not sure.

Man, we're _almost_ free.

It's almost over.

I can go home.

Run.

Sleep.

Suddenly, I'm unspeakably tired, right down to my bones.

"Can you tell us what you were working on?" Marko asks. "It must've been interesting."

Jira's gaze flicks over to him. "Do you know what dimensional string expansion is?"

"Of course," he replies, like he actually means it.

"How promising," Jira says. "Perhaps there _is_ hope, if more young people could be like you, instead of..." She frowns, then shakes it off. "Regardless, recent research has been quite promising in that field. Unfortunately, as you'd know, expanding a dimensional string requires problematic amounts of energy and exotic matter, which presents associated 'dangers' if certain fear-mongers are to be believed. Preliminary tests are therefore being done here, prior to continued research on Earth which brings me to this," she adds, gesturing at her equipment. "I am confirming if the experiment containment field was breached. A small detour would be required, if true."

"Makes sense," Marko says. "Were the tests successful?"

"Quite."

"That's exciting."

"Quite." She refocuses on her work.

"Pause please!" Izzy says. " _What_ exactly are these 'dimensional extreme pandas'? That apparently everyone knows about but me?"

"It's when you take a regular panda and turn it into a wave," Marko replies. "But like, a really radical one."

"Is that a quantum mechanics joke? Did you just make a quantum mechanics joke?" Her face scrunches like she's eating a lemon. "I thought you were _better_ than that. As a _person_."

"Reality is often disappointing." He shrugs. "Or dependent on observation. Sorry."

She rolls her eyes. "SPEAKING of research, any update on those monsters? That we saw? Because we definitely did see them?" Her voice rises higher and higher with each question. "Doctor, have you noticed anything like, um... fuzzy balls of light? That maybe want to eat people?"

"No," Jira says flatly.

"You don't know what they could be?"

"I checked a number of the station's camera feeds but saw no phenomena like that which you're describing." She enunciates every syllable.

"Maybe they don't show up on cameras," Marko says.

"They do," Izzy says. "I'll send you a Mymory."

" _No._ Chasing imaginary monsters isn't productive." Jira presses buttons with tiny, precise motions.

The rest of her is frozen. An iceberg.

"Not productive," she says again.

Marko and Izzy share a look.

Finn stares into the distance, daydreaming. (Well, I assume it's daytime.)

Unfortunately, telling myself to relax isn't actually relaxing, and to me, this whole situation still feels off. The problem is, I don't know what to do with that instinct. I take a breath, trying to compact my misgivings into something concrete.

"What's Illumination?" I ask.

Jira's face flickers. "Where did you hear that?"

"Nowhere in particular."

"It's another of the experiments here – one I don't know much about. There are privacy issues involved. Patents. Things of that nature."

"Is that why the station was attacked? Those experiments."

"I'd rather not speculate."

"TBH I'm just happy we're leaving," Izzy says. "That's what really matters, right? We can figure out the rest on the trip back to Earth." She smiles, throwing pretend confetti into the air. "Surviving! Wooo! Seeing your family again! Wooo! Actual sunshine! Yeah!" She wiggles her fingers, letting them fall like streamers. "Not dying in a freak space accident! Wooo!"

"The most precious of gifts," I grumble. "Not dying in a freak space accident."

It doesn't take much longer for Jira finish to her techno-magic. She packs the machine back into its box and stands, folding antennas into place. "Let's keep moving," she says tersely. "There's something I have to show you."

She starts walking.

"Are we close?" I call out after her.

A nod.

More corridors, more doorways blocked by vaguely ominous, broken barricades, until we come to a security gate protected by a prison's worth of cameras and the kind of armour plating you'd use to hold back a Minotaur. Jira takes a keycard from her pocket; a bio-sequencer scans her face for good measure. There are three gates, it turns out, each heavier than the last as we climb through, leap back down. Thick black conduits snake from wall to floor (or whatever serves as floor in our canted gravity).

This time, Finn's last in line, his footsteps a few heartbeats behind mine, slightly off-pace. I bet he's doing that thing he does, staring nothing and... ugh. _Thinking_. I try shifting my own footsteps to match, but can't quite manage it.

Instead, I stomp louder.

Still, I can feel his shadow on the backs of my legs.

I can smell the blood in his hair.

The iceberg's already hit me and I'm taking on water, no matter how much I'd love to pretend otherwise.

"Are you telling the truth?" I ask, biting my lip.

Jira looks over her shoulder. "Yes, Alex. I am."

"All of it?"

"Yes. I'd... rather not lie anymore."

"Oh." My reply gets caught somewhere. "Great."

The air's becoming thicker with condensation, light-shafts twisting between dangling cables like a wintry forest sunrise. (Crepuscular rays, they're called - fun word.) Jira ducks under a barrier. "Sometimes – often – when we make decisions, they aren't the right ones. Evidence is gathered, a hypothesis is formed, and it's simply flawed. Incorrect. Perhaps it takes years to realise, or reassess, or the input of many others. But I find comfort in the fact that eventually, ultimately – science does prevail." She smiles nervously, as if remembering how. "I hope we can understand each other, Alex. I hope you and Finn can become friends. Perhaps not brother and sister, but... friends, at least. I think there would be quantifiable benefits, for both of you. Unless you think it's too late?"

"I... hope not."

"Do you mean that?"

I'm not sure.

'Quantifiable benefits' aren't how I'd describe my friendships (more like various trash heaps of questionable influences), but this woman might actually be properly _trying._ It makes it harder to hold onto my anger, its battlements crumbling around me.

"I could organise another meeting with your parents," Jira says.

Right now, that seems impossibly distant.

Which, in itself, is comforting.

"Would my dad be there?" I ask. "My biological dad?"

Jira stops. She grows, in the dark. "No."

"Why not?"

"It would be unproductive."

"Well, I apologise for wanting to know the full story. After this, I'd rather not leave secrets lying around."

"We can... we will discuss this afterwards." Multiple faces push through the blankness, too fast for me to read. "There's something I have to show you—"

"HELP! HELP, IS ANYONE THERE?!"

An unfamiliar voice. Passageway to the left.

"YEAH!" Izzy shouts back.

"OH THANK GOD! WE NEED SOME HELP HERE! FAST PLEASE!"

No one's cynical enough to think it's a trap, so we run towards the voice, pushing through the cables. There's a set of doors choked by congealed globs of what looks like melted plastic – a quick-setting, adhesive foam I've seen my mum use before. The bottle claims it'll seal a crocodile's jaw shut for a minimum of two centuries, guaranteed.

Through smudged window, a gap in the foam, peers a wide, moon-like face. It sags visibly in relief. "Holy shit holy shit holy shit! Okay! We're in a bad way here and you don't _seem_ like you're part of the problem, so here goes – those bastards sealed us in here—"

"Who?" Izzy asks.

"The boarders! With all the guns! Did you somehow miss the... wait, you're a kid? You're _all_ kids?" The face sags more. "Oh no."

"How many of you are there?"

"Twelve. Twelve of us." It shifts aside and I glimpse... a storage room? Shapes moving, air filled with debris. "My name's Pendant – I work here. Or used to."

"Explain the problem," Izzy says. "Maybe we can help."

"The problem? The _problem_ is we're stuck in this dreadful closet, life support in this area has been disabled and in sixty minutes we're all going to suffocate. And failing that, we'll freeze to death. And failing that, the station's going to explode." Pendant's covered in sweat, eyes hidden behind foggy glasses. I'd say their vibe is 'crazy history teacher' but twenty years younger and substantially less sleep-deprived.

"You're right," Marko murmurs. "That's a problem."

"Uh, yes. Yes it is. So if you could just, um—"

"You can't get out?" Izzy asks.

The face moves back for a second, as if trying not to scream. " _Obviously_ not, there's nothing we can use to cut through! We are _stuck_ —"

"No emergency air supply? No other ways out?"

"You're asking a bunch of scientists if we... Lord, give me strength. What are you, fifteen?"

"Sixteen," Izzy says haughtily.

"Well, _random precocious child_ , we've checked every atom in here with an electron microscope and the most interesting thing is a stack of superconducting magnets, which, last I checked, we CANNOT BREATHE. We've looked for ways to escape but there aren't any. Otherwise we would've _escaped_. Make sense?"

"Okay, okay, no need to be—"

"Be _what_?!"

I touch my fist to the foam. It's smooth, glossy, sticky to the touch – the secretion an alien monster queen would use to cocoon her victims. My dad's needed to dissolve this goo stuff before; what did he use to do it? I wonder if I've got a visual record of the instructions on the bottle, or some random exam revision chemistry modules downloaded in my MeshMate.

"Did you tell them about the altitude?" another voice says.

Pendant turns, to a person we can't see. "I didn't. Joshua, that's not relevant—"

"You should tell them about the altitude."

Pendant rolls their eyes. "If everyone _must_ know, that acceleration you feel? It's lowering the station's perigee. Soon we'll start skipping across Saturn's upper atmosphere like a _very_ big stone and at these speeds we'll burn up nearly instantly. It'll be lovely and pretty, though; probably visible from Earth-based telescopes."

"Not good," Izzy says.

"It's terrible!"

Marko turns to Jira. "Do you know who controlling the station thrusters?"

"No," she says.

"But you agree that we'll burn up." He watches calmly.

Jira purses her lips. "I was intending to leave the station before that eventuality."

"How long do we have?"

"Hard to be sure with the Mesh in this state," Pendant says. "Back of the envelope estimate... hours? Truthfully, I'd made peace with dying tragically young and unloved since nobody was responding to our pings— oh, because you turned off your transponders. Smart. Well, Joshua here will be glad he doesn't have to start cremating himself but that _does_ rely on us getting free. Preferably soon."

"There's still time," the unseen voice says.

"Not _much_ time, Joshua!"

"Why'd they trap you guys in there, anyway?" I ask. "The hijackers said they want everyone _off_ the station. They told us they don't want to kill anyone."

"Oh, please, I tell people I was college room-mates with Tom Cruise's illegal clone," Pendant says. "And I _was_ , but I could easily be lying. Honestly? I think they meant to come back and get us – or still will, even if that's growing more and more unlikely – but they got spooked. There was some commotion about a fire, people escaping, huge panic, so they locked us in here and ran off to deal with it. That was about an hour ago and they haven't come back. Never thought I'd be sad to see some terrorists go, but I am quite gutted."

"That reminds me," Marko murmurs. "Izzy, do you have—"

"—the plasma cutty thingy! I do!" She whips it out, brandishing it like a sword. "Outta juice, though. Needs a new cartridge."

"The seal's heat-resistant anyway," Pendant replies. "And _please_ don't slice any walls apart until you have proper qualifications. We'd rather you didn't breach something questionable, since this station's already holier than the Pope."

"Ha," says Joshua.

"My suggestion – my... request – is to go to central engineering," Pendant continues, "because from there, you can control the station's emergency response protocols. We can provide the necessary access codes. You could deploy drones to cut us out, redistribute life support, reverse the engines... In fact, most of our current problems would be solved! Or potentially solvable."

"Then we do that," I say. "We go to engineering."

A hand on my shoulder. "There isn't time," Jira says.

"What are you talking about?"

"We do not have time to help these people. Not if we want to be certain of survival."

"Doctor Aizawa?" Pendant asks, pressing against the window.

"Hello, Doctor Caulfield," she replies.

"Goodness me, I didn't realise – you have to help me! Us! Please, I'm begging you—"

Her gaze is impassive. "I'm sorry."

It doesn't feel right that my blood runs cold. Her fingers clench like a vice. So do mine, around a nugget of molten iron, a furious kindness boiling in my heart that probably wouldn't have been there if she hadn't said 'no.'

Other people can help you in the strangest of ways. "There IS time," I grunt.

"Alex, these people can help themselves. Your friends' safety is the most important thing. Once we escape, we can think about—"

"I'm helping them."

"Yeah, I'm with her," Izzy says.

"Do we know where engineering is?" Marko asks, too doubtfully. "Or how to operate anything once we get there?" 

"Pendant can point us to it, can't he?" I reply.

"Yes! Yes, I can give you directions—"

"But it'll be dangerous," Marko says, "and maybe it's not the best idea to start running across the station again considering what we just went through—"

"Marko, shut the hell up," I retort.

He gives Jira a sidelong glance, torn between us both. "I'm just saying we need to be sure. And that we should listen to the one person who can actually make sure we stay breathing."

"Then I'll do it on my own," I say.

"With me," Izzy adds.

"With Izzy."

"I am not embarking on this fool's errand," Jira says.

"It's not a fool's errand, it's the _right thing to do_."

"But not an intelligent one, in the circumstances."

"What about _their_ circumstances?" The iron wells up my arm, burns in my chest. She lets go of my shoulder. I step back. "If you cared about me – about _anything_ – you'd—"

"I care _very much_ ," Jira hisses. "Too much! That's what youdon't seem to comprehend!"

Pendant watches, wide-eyed, like a spectator at a tennis match.

"If you helped us, Doctor Aizawa, I bet it'd work out," Izzy says soothingly. "You know the station. We don't. It wouldn't take long."

"I don't think we should separate," Finn murmurs.

Jira grabs him instead.

His arm goes limp.

She towers over me.

"The transit system," Pendant stammers, "you have to get to the closest station. There's a car down the other end of the corridor, it's still running, it'll take you right to the—"

"Stop," Jira says. "You're coming with me to the experimental hub. Now. All of you. There's something I have to show you."

"I don't care," I say. "I'm leaving." The burning inside me makes that perfectly clear.

"What if we don't make it?" Marko asks. "What happens then?"

"We'll fucking make it, so COME ON!"

She towers over me.

I take a step.

Another.

The spell breaks. I'm running, I'm running away, towards a place I don't know, and Izzy sprints after me, and Marko takes a couple steps, torn, terrified as Finn still hangs slack in her grasp. Jira screeches: STOP, NO, LISTEN all at once.

"I'm... I'm sorry," Finn says. "We'll meet you back here. I promise."

She holds him tight. "No, Finn, please—"

Marko wrenches her arm away. Finn wriggles free. She snatches at Marko instead, emitting shrieks of inhuman anger, fear, brokenness, fingernails scoring deep lines in the forearms of his suit until he manages to shove her back enough to slip out of her grasp. She stumbles, collapsing, then staggering upright like a puppet on a string.

"I'll save them!" she screams. "I'll help them, we'll help them, I promise! Just... come back! There's something I have to show you..."

I don't stop.

 _We_ don't stop.

She goes slack, sagging against the wall of the tunnel.

Her eyes are... anguished.

"I'll save them," she says again.

She stands. Straightens. Walks towards the sealed door, oddly calm. The green glowstick casts a giant's shadow and I shudder as it touches me.

I round the corner.

And she's gone.


	16. Alex

Two transit capsules hang from a single rail beside a deserted train platform. They remind me of fancy water bottles, back halves metallic red, fronts formed from heavily-tinted plastic barely transparent enough to count. With gravity as it is, they stick out sideways. 

< _Schedule unavailable > _says a Mesh hologram.

"Pendant said they'd still work, didn't he?" Izzy pants.

I climb up to the nearest door.

It slides open.

Inside, there's a couple dozen seats, rising from the floor as if moulded from a single poly-growth. Izzy starts working a fingerprint-smeared autopilot console, trying to get us moving. Marko and Finn arrive soon after. They take up stations either side of the entrance, studiously peering in opposite directions.

"Alright," I say. "What's up with you two?"

"Is something up?" Marko asks.

"That's what I'm asking."

He shrugs. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you asking?"

I wave aimlessly in their general direction. "Lotta awkward silence."

"It's a stressful situation."

"Yeah, well, it's more like a teacher caught you kissing behind the bike shed. Or beating each other up. I don't know." 

"I love your imagination," Marko says.

Finn just stares into space.

I fire off a _harrumph_ that'd make Jane Austen proud, then leave to help Izzy. Something _is_ off about those two, but I've gotta admit Marko's right. Stressful situation. One I'm doing my best to alternately ignore or charge straight through, and I sincerely hope either approach doesn't stop working in the near future because I'm not sure I can manage much else right now.

The capsule lurches.

We're moving.

Ahead, a series of vacuum-sealed gates scythe open, one after another as we build up speed. They close behind us as if pushing us along, a piece of food down a monster's gullet. Reflections slide across the windows like raindrops.

We leave the station altogether, flying into open space. 

Saturn's nightside – a moody, grey expanse of smudged pencilwork – takes up half the sky.

Izzy snaps her fingers in mock (or not) applause. "So I don't wanna bring the mood down further but I'm hearing a defeaning lack of praise."

I give her a thumbs-up. "Good job. Thanks."

"You're _extra_ -welcome. This train's a real grumpy boy - it didn't wanna move till I threatened to delete its flash memory. The bits it wasn't using, obviously."

The capsule shudders, curving clockwise towards the next arm of the starfish. I figure it'll take a few minutes to traverse its circumference. 

"Are we going to discuss what we did?" Marko asks. He moves off the wall.

"What is there to discuss?" I ask.

"Giving up a surefire escape route for this wild goose chase."

"Dude, nothing about that was 'surefire'. Of course I wanna believe she was saving us, but ever since we met up with her..." I go to fiddle with the neck of my hoodie, but my vacsuit's in the way. "I didn't want to acknowledge it too much, but something didn't – DOESN'T – add up. Wait, isn't that's your gimmick? Being able to tell when people lie?"

"It's not my 'gimmick', but sure. She at least knew where to go, which is more than you or I can say, isn't it? Maybe she was still in shock and rattled off a bunch of weird answers—"

"No kidding."

"—but she _did_ want to help—"

"But also didn't."

"—and ultimately, there were a million better ways to handle it! I get it, you don't like her. Or trust her. Or want to. And you probably shouldn't. But being slightly more cooperative would've given us a better chance to—"

"Marko, we'll be fine. Besides, if you didn't think this was a good idea, you could've _not come_."

He sighs. "You know that isn't true."

I shrug.

Still... what if he's right?

It's my choice. My mistake. My responsibility.

Pit in my stomach.

In the distance, glowing engines cup Starfish's underside, a glimmer of fiery blue. The chilly plastic windows feel alien by my side, as does the odd biology of the station, and the way Saturn's rings slice the world in two. I don't know how things work in this place, or what's going to happen, or why I'm here at all. I hate that _not-knowingness,_ more than anything.

I guess I see Marko's point. A promise of safety, so recklessly abandoned.

But I KNOW I'd feel even worse if we'd left those people to die. Lieutenant frickin' Violet wouldn't turn their back on this. Or Hermione Grainger. Or Lyra Belacqua. Or Alex Hawthorne.

Hold that fire. Don't let anyone take it from you.

Hold that fire until you can't.

But I'm just one girl.

I feel like breaking.

I open my notebook, and write _'feel like breaking'_.

Finn's sitting near the front, a statue. Marko drums his fingers on his thighs, the rhythm definitely familiar. Izzy's posed like an anime schoolgirl and taking what appears to be a god-damn selfie. I can't help but hear magpies laughing in the back of my mind, as if placing bets on which one of us might break first.

_< Hey! It's Pendant. Is this the right channel? I hope it's the right channel. Say 'bazooka' if you can hear me.> _

"Oh hey!" Izzy replies. "Bazooka."

< _Faaaan-tastic. Well, just thought I'd let you know that Doctor Aizawa left. So that's awkward. We're doing okay though, mostly. Considering the circumstances. Anyway, be careful, since these kinds of comm-links are definitely trackable with the Mesh in its current state. We should really only talk when it's absolutely necessary. Sorry! Thanks? Sorry? Joshua, I need— >_

He breaks the connection.

"Great," Marko murmurs. "One more target painted on our backs."

"I'm gonna be optimistic and say they're too busy to chase us," Izzy says. "Or too far away. If _I_ was an evil henchman I bet I'd always have my hands full doing... evil stuff. Assaulting innocent people. Et cetera."

"Murdering and pillaging," Marko says.

"Setting things on fire," Izzy replies.

"Breaking traffic laws."

"Littering."

"Tax fraud."

"Incest."

"I'm going to the bathroom," I announce.

"I'll come with you," Marko says. "I need to talk to you about something."

"Um – you can _wait_ ," I reply.

"It'll just take a second."

Without ever explicitly agreeing to _anything whatsoever_ , I find myself in a overly-cramped and underly-sterile transit car bathroom, sitting on the cleanest section I can find (the sink). Marko leans against the opposite wall, six inches between my dangling feet and his knees. I generally avoid public transit bathrooms because they're factually the worst places on Earth - the only positive is that calling someone the human equivalent of an airplane toilet becomes a pretty decent insult. Sometimes, though, you run out of options.

I wait for Marko to say what ever he wants to say.

He doesn't.

I spread my hands, accidentally slapping the door in the process. "Second time today you've followed me into a bathroom – we wouldn't want that to become a habit."

"Wouldn't we?"

"No. You wouldn't." In other circumstances I'd consider finding his slight smirk attractive, but this answer-questions-with-questions shtick is starting to infuriate me. "Is there something you actually want? I do have to use this toilet and trust me, you don't want to be here when the magic happens."

"Okay. Then can I kiss you?"

Three options: I misheard, I'm dreaming, or I'm dead. "Say that again?"

"I don't think I need to."

"Bloody humour me, then."

Again: "Can I kiss you?" It's like he's asking if I've finished my homework.

I try and frown away my confusion. "As in, hypothetically?" 

"Literally."

"Then, um... no. Why?"

"It's just an offer," he says, disarmingly casual. "Call it 'making memories', if you want. Or doing something fun before our next near-death experience."

"Huh. Is that the best cliche you've got prepared? I thought _you_ of all people would've crossed 'kiss a girl' off your bucket list years ago."

"Obviously. What about your bucket list, though?"

"Oh, eff off. Also, very presumptuous of you." I kick his knee lightly.

"Interesting. Well, the offer stands, independent of motive. Or maybe I'll switch it around: can you kiss me?"

"I _can,_ sure. Whether I _will_ is another question completely."

The smirk returns. "And if I say 'please'?"

He folds his arms.

I fold mine.

The heat of his breath fogs up the mirror behind my head. It's like he fills the entire space, a cat too big for its cardboard box, me a mouse trapped underneath crossed paws.

"First, this is some real bullshit," I reply.

"Noted."

"Second, it'd be way easier to make out with a MeshMate simulation. Most people do, when they want practice."

"They do."

Four short words: 'against my better judgement.'

They explain so much.

About life.

About my current situation.

About—

I lean forwards and so does he and our lips meet and a strand of hair falls across my nose. I flick it away before it can interrupt.

I should get to have fun too, right?

I deserve it.

Plus, he's objectively good at this - if I didn't know better, I'd say he's had lots of practice. The mirror's cold at my back but he's warm on my cheek and his mouth is _electric_ as it opens slightly and I'm kind of floating, or buzzing, but what am I doing, why is he _like_ this, why is his _tongue_ like this, a tiny surprise but definitely not unpleasant as my hand suddenly finds itself in his messy, soft hair, then on the back of his neck, taut muscles, warm skin, fumbling, my lips pressed against his. Our suits touch, and I've somehow forgotten about everything else, except—

He pulls away.

I congratulate myself on my spontaneity.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Marko looks like he's calculating something, but doesn't say a word. 

"Just so you know, I don't usually do this." My words hang between us, trapped by the closed door (that, on second thoughts, might not be 100% soundproof). "I just... ugh. I thought it'd be fun?"

"Was it?" he asks. Again, perfectly relaxed. It's terrifying.

"Why do I feel like I've been used?" I ask.

"You tell me."

" _Have_ I been used?"

"Does it matter, if you enjoyed it?"

"I— did YOU enjoy it?"

"Sure." He shrugs, and smiles, and I hate that it makes me feel good. "Can I give you some advice?"

"I'm confident me saying 'no' won't make any difference, so... fire away."

"You can say no."

"Then—"

"But you won't."

I narrow my eyes. "...No."

He gazes at me with those pale blue eyes.

"Okay," I sigh. "Tell me. As long as it's not advice about the kissing."

"You and Finn have to help each other. Finn needs you."

"Uh... sure?" Suddenly, he seems more serious than before. "How is that related to any of this?"

"I realise you've been on your own till now. So has Finn. And even though you've been fine with that, it doesn't mean life has to stay that way forever. For me..." He bites his lip softly, and I can't help staring, a tiny mark on still-wet skin. "I understand it isn't like this for everyone, but for me, my brother was the best thing that ever happened. The _best_ thing. And as part of all the shit that's happened to you, and me, and him in the past few hours, you're getting the chance to have that feeling too. And you shouldn't throw that away. Not until you know what it means."

Somehow, it's the most genuine he's ever been.

"I don't understand you, Marko."

"Good."

And then he leaves.

He shuts the door behind him.

A featureless white wall, like... like nothing was ever there.

A simulation. 

I don't know how long I sit for.

Eventually, I do my business.

I wash my hands.

The way Marko talks, replete with meaningless platitudes and rhetorical questions, is a trick he only pulls on me. Right? In a group, with the others, he's far less antagonistic.

Oh.

_Oh._

That's how me bloody manipulates me, or tries to... because he KNOWS I can't bloody stand it. If he tried that same style on Finn he'd get absolutely nowhere—

 _Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang!_ Barbarians at the gates.

_"Alex, it's me! Can I come in?"_

I sigh, gazing into the mirror, looking as exhausted as a hobbit after solving a certain jewellery-related problem. I touch my lips again, then let my hand fall. "Yeah, Izzy. Come in."

She charges inside WAY too fast, nearly knocking me onto the toilet, then shuts the door behind her with exaggerated care. "Yay! Oops."

I like high-energy people, but sometimes, it's a _lot._ "So. What's up?" 

"I wanted to see you," she says breathlessly.

"You saw me literally two minutes ago."

"Ya, but this is like, bathroom chats."

"O-kaaaayyyy..."

She shrinks away in horror. "Don't tell me you haven't experienced _bathroom chats._ "

"Nah yeah, I know what you mean. At my school we call 'em 'bathroom bants'." I look around. "Not quite the same without some juicy gossip to spread, though."

"Then why did Marko follow you? What did he wanna talk about?"

"Nothing important."

"Really?"

"I mean, we totally made out, but—"

"EEEUUUAAAAHHH!" She screeches so loudly it nearly blows my ears off, then freezes, hand over mouth.

"Izzy! Keep it down."

"He _kissed_ you?" she whispers. "Full tongue and stuff?"

"Sure?" I glance at the door. "It was extremely weird. He asked me if I was keen, and was like, offensively nice about it. And look, I kinda hate myself for going along with it, but— never mind. It doesn't matter."

"It doesn't _matter_?! You're a disgrace." She glares at me.

"Can't argue with that."

"A hecking _disgrace_."

"I agree."

"A—"

"Uh-huh." I try not to sound too pleased. Izzy wants to know everything, so of course I tell her, and her eyes sparkle like she's getting two Christmasses at once. I try not to embellish any sordid details but I'm both too weak and too trashy to resist.

"That said," I add, "d'you know what Marko's deal is? It's weirder and weirder the more I think about it. It's like he floats around, being a cool little cloud—"

"A hot tall one," Izzy says.

"—without ever seeming to... exist? Does that track? I mean, he's great, and nice to talk to, and useful, but I don't know who he... is." The thought trickles out of me, pooling on the floor.

"Some people are just like that," Izzy says. "They act. Blend in. Y'know, surface level."

"Maybe. Why, though?"

"You could ask him."

"You say that as if he'd tell the truth."

"I'll ask him, then. People's motivations, or personalities, or _soul,_ if you wanna get deep – IMO that stuff's always pretty simple."

I settle in for what's fast becoming _top-tier_ bathroom bants. "Including yours?"

" _Totally_. My entire personality is like, three TikToks long."

"Really? Please present your evidence to the court."

"Well, your honour— is that what you're supposed to say? I've only been arrested once and the judge threw me out. Anyway, this is hella lame and boring, but you _did_ ask." She stares at me accusingly. "I dunno how familiar you are with Thai history—"

"Absolute beginner."

"—but twenty years ago, China started being extremely 'peaceful' and 'nonthreatening' and basically tried to absorb us for territory." She punctuates her words with air-quotes. "Absorb makes it sound too nice, because, um, it wasn't. When I was growing up it was moooostly over, but still, there wasn't enough of anything to go around, there was fighting everywhere, and even though I knew nothing about 'politics' I understood there were reasons why I sometimes didn't get food, or why soldiers sometimes came to steal people away. What I _didn't_ understand is why, on the Mesh, every night, I could see people living in shining domes or in fairytale gardens when my own grandparents' house was on stilts to escape the constant polluted floods. I didn't understand why there could still be war and hunger and hatred when there was so much technology that could _fix_ those problems. And even worse, the _fairytale_ was the thing that'd stolen my parents. It was there for other people, but... not for me. Not for us. Kinda a lot to deal with when you're six years old, so I mostly didn't, y'know?"

"That's... rough," I say futilely.

"Yeah, kinda a sob story isn't it? Feel free to cry if you want. Totally makes it worth it. Anyways, one day – one of the worst days – I came home from school totally terrified of everything because—" She catches herself. "You don't need to hear that part. But I came home, scared, and my grandma decided because she was _awesome_ that she was gonna teach me how to make her special green curry. Even though she'd had many more bad days than me and even though _her_ daughter was the one missing, she laughed, and shared a thing she loved, and basically forced me to be happy. And I _was_. I am." She smiles. "It's the _worst_ superhero origin story. Like, Batman had a bad parental situation but at least he was rich, y'know? And Superman's planet got blown up which is pretty harsh but hecan fly and has laser-eyes and if that was me I'd be ruling the world by now. As for me... ugh. Sorry for talking so much."

"You aren't. Or well, I'm glad you are."

"Thanks." She tilts her head, hair falling to one side. "But it's like... when I think of how strong the smell was in our tiny kitchen, and how my grandma's voice sounded, with the pot bubbling next to us - I can draw a line through my life, from that moment, to right here. I never thought I'd be _here,_ y'know _?_ Lots of people around me never got that chance to get out, or go to school in another country, or ever leave home. I'd feel guilty if I didn't make it work."

"That.. sounds like a lot of pressure. On yourself."

"Guilt maaaaybe isn't the right word. But, I don't mind either way! It's... me! Or part of me."

When I think of the trivial crap that seemed world-ending when _I_ was seven years old, I distinctly remember getting furious at being forced to eat broccoli stems.

"I just want to run," I say.

"Why?"

"I... don't know." I bite my lip softly. "I think I just wanna go home. I always do."

Izzy glances at me. "Why? Earth's seriously pretty terrible when you think about it. Have you ever looked at social inequality? It's insane."

"Well, yeah—"

"And media censorship? How the Mesh is totally controlled? How everything in peoples' lives can basically be traced back to three megacorps who're all definitely controlled by rampant AIs?"

"You DOlove conspiracy theories."

"Alex, that crap I told you about my past is _still happening_ \- it doesn't have to, but everyone's obsessed with their own problems! Either because they're idiots, or there's no empathy, or they're being controlled. It's a miracle we haven't destroyed ourselves yet."

"Okay, but we aren't living out the Hunger Games, either. It's disappointing that we don't have cool alien friends yet, but have you _seen_ what life was like two hundred years ago? People rode around on _horses_. They had to carry their own _computers_. They didn't even have plumbing!"

"Try telling that to the people stuck outside the domes, dying in old-world slums. The people trapped in Pure Human enclaves. The oceans which are so polluted by bio-replicants they can't support fish—"

"Izzy, I get it. I read about this stuff heaps. But it's hard to—"

"Help?"

"...Sure. It's hard to help." Empathy's easy, but turning it into actions is another story, especially when 90% of my problems are in a fifty-kilometre bubble centred on a farming town.

"That's why my YouTube channel's good," Izzy says. "I like thinking that I can help people, or at least change their minds. It's hard though." She bobs her head. "Anyways, are you OK? With the, um, adoption stuff? That's what I came to ask in the first place - not bring up all my therapy crap."

"I'm fine, Izzy." I grin. "Thanks."

"And Marko didn't do anything weird to you?"

"Well, yeah, but I did consent."

"Good." She clenches her fist. "Otherwise I'd deck him."

I believe her.

"I'd flipping _deck_ him, Alex."

"I believe you."

"I believe me too." She hugs me and her hair smells of bubblegum and roses. "Also, I'm super glad we're trying to save those people, no matter what those other dopes think. It's gonna happen, too, because we're hecking superheroes. We're gonna save this whole station!"

"'Save' is maybe a strong word for 'not immediately crashing into the planet'—"

"We're gonna _save the world_ , Alex."

"Okay. Fine. We're gonna save the world." I roll my eyes, but my heart's not in it.

She leaves with a playful twirl and a final, too-wide grin, as quickly as she arrived.

Once again, I'm alone.

I wonder if Finn's about to come in. Why not collect the full set?

He doesn't, though.

Instead, I wash my hands again and leave, stomach rumbling.

Marko looks up. "Slow train," he murmurs.

"Not there yet?"

"We switched tracks, so I think it's close."

Finn's sitting at the front of the carriage, watching the stars. Saturn's crescent has taken on a mild yellow hue, hinting at sunrise. 

Thinking of him as my brother feels weird. I've taken a wrong turn, and the sun's going down, and I can't quite recognise the road back home. That's fair, I think. What's less fair is the extra undercurrent of irritation, as if part of me believes it's decidedly his fault for manifesting into a 'problem' I now have to deal with.

'Opportunity,' Marko would say, correcting me.

Problem. Opportunity. I touch my notebook, leaving it closed, for now. 

Am I going to talk to him?

I'm gonna talk to him.

I grumble under my breath, suppressing nervousness that definitely isn't there. "Watcha up to?"

He twitches like a coiled-up spring. "It's, um... nothing. It's stupid. Nothing."

"I guarantee I won't think so."

He remains distinctly ill-at-ease, a skeleton with too many bones.

I sit, legs crossed.

"Drawing," he says eventually.

"Oh. Are you good?"

"I'm okay."

"When arty people describe themselves as 'okay', they're usually pretty good."

He exhales through his nose, the real-life equivalent of 'lol' as punctuation.

"Can I see?" I ask.

He decides to give in and sends me a MeshLink. Wireframe polygons and painterly textures unfold across my vision, building a new world around me with digital clicks and whirrs.

"It's rough," he says. "It's a distraction, mostly."

It's a virtual scene, drawn from 3-D brushstrokes – not particularly detailed, formed from bright, clean shades and the general suggestion of detail – but that also gives it a kind of purity, or optimism. It's a theme park, but abandoned, devoid of people, footpaths and waterslides and overgrown gardens eroded by weather and time. Amongst sandy dunes, a ten-metre bust of Poseidon gazes towards an endless horizon, trident resting on one shoulder. The only movement comes from a mottled lizard, perched on a diving board. Its tail hangs off the side, thick as my forearm.

"That _is_ good," I murmur. "Exactly when d'you find time to draw this?"

"I've been doing sections when we're waiting around. Here and there."

"Huh, wow. That's crazy. It takes me freaking _ages_ to write anything decent, or do anything creative... or not creative. I'm just a natural procrastinator. Is this based on a real place? Also, you're really good."

"I'm not."

"Take the compliment."

If I didn't know better, I'd swear he's blushing. "It's an abandoned waterpark."

"I can see that—"

"Near the Perth dome. It was ditched about a hundred years ago, then it re-opened, then it closed again. They had seals there, and dolphins... way before we were born, though. Now it's just a nice place to walk around." He looks down. "It's easy to find, though you need a nature pass to get there."

"Are passes hard to get, in the city?"

"Not particularly. They just ask what it's for, and check if you have a bad social score or whatever."

"Oh. Neat. Got any others?"

He swipes the scene aside.

A murky hallway, dotted with moss. Sunlight falls through shattered windows, spotlighting puddles on the concrete floor that glint too bright for comfort. Half-rotted papers form a layer of muck, a reminder of a more wasteful time. Again, the lizard, its forked tongue licking at evaporative mist.

"Kinda dingy," I say. "Where's this one from?"

"There's heaps of old tunnels under this one shopping centre near my house. I think it used to be a power station? Back when they used coal?" He glances at me, as if seeking affirmation. "You're not supposed to hang out there, but nobody checks. I haven't been all the way to the bottom because... I don't wanna get stabbed, but it's fun to explore. In the daytime."

"Huh. Stabbed?"

"Apparently people filming a hoverboard video down there got attacked by... some weirdo living in the tunnels."

"Sounds about right." I touch some of the painted moss, my hand passing through the insubstantial green blob. "You like this stuff, huh? Abandoned places?"

"I..." He shrugs. "There's something about them."

"I get that. There's an old water tower near the town where I live, and I always love climbing up there and just taking in the view. It's... aspirational, right? An instinct. Like the feeling old-world explorers might've had when they crested a hill for the first time. New places. New possibilities. Or old places, in this case, but it's an easy way of fulfilling that mixture of curiosity and ambition."

"Huh," Finn says.

"Yeah, I surprise myself sometimes. Are you planning to do this kind of stuff as a job? Honestly, you're probably decent enough, and VR designers get paid a _lot_ to come up with new shit."

"No. I'm doing engineering. I want to build spaceships."

"Now _that's_ aspirational."

He smiles. "I just like science fiction stories."

"Today won't to change your mind?"

Abruptly, the smile fades.

The stars judge us. The view actually doesn't look too different from when I'm sitting on that water tower, since the ag-dome is basically just a giant cockpit for a few thousand people. In both cases, a protective layer shields us from reality.

"This is going to sound self-centred," he murmurs.

"I might beat you in that department," I reply. "So go ahead."

"When I think about where humanity is, right now, and where we'll be, in a hundred years' time, I want to contribute to that. And I've always thought that space is important. For that journey. That's how I justify it, anyway."

"I mean, it's not _that_ self-centred - lots of people want to be important, right? It's natural to want your life to mean something. It's natural to want to do the things you like."

"Sure." Whenever I make eye contact, he looks away.

"And the lizard?" I point to it. "What's up with him? Or her?"

"Um, that's Ferdinand. My pet."

"Cats too mainstream?"

"I just like lizards."

"It _is_ like owning a dinosaur, I s'pose."

"I think birds are the ones descended from dinosaurs."

"Yeah, you're right. Actually, when I was little, I had this friend who also lived on a farm, and for some reason there was always an emu roaming around. For a while our favourite game was to chase the emu and try and corner it or trap it, and of course, eventually it got super scared and annoyed and it figured out – hey, I'm a giant freaking animal that's _way_ bigger than any of these morons chasing me. Why don't I hunt them back? So, for the next year, whenever I went to this friend's place this HUMONGOUS BIRD would come sprinting at me from the treeline like a velociraptor and we'd have to bloody _book it_ to avoid getting kicked in the face. Ever been kicked by an emu?"

"I'm not sure I'd like to," Finn says.

"Understandable. Anyway, that's given me an idea – pick one of these pictures, and I'll write a short story about it. Could be a fun exercise, right? You like drawing stuff, I like writing stuff... and I'm always looking for reasons to be productive." Honestly it sounds lame, but I'm trying to be personable.

Finn swipes through another few scenes.

A dozen players assemble on a clipped green field, beneath a slate sky. They're warming up for a game of field hockey – I recognise the sticks and shinpads, goalie kitted out in full protective gear. There's a sign on the fence, barely legible, and one of the players is leaping up to touch it. In my imagination, I hear its metallic _clang_. "You play hockey?" I ask.

"Sort of." He pauses. "I... kinda hate it."

"Oh? Shitty team?"

"No, no, it's just..." He shakes his head. "I dunno. Kinda never liked it, to be honest."

"Why'd you pick this painting, then?"

"Now that I've told you that, I'm interested to see what you'll write."

He gazes at the players, as if trying to find meaning in the faceless faces.

Huh. Apparently, there's a fair bit ticking away behind that quiet exterior. We're still tiptoeing around each other, but hey – Shrek and Donkey and Princess Fiona detested each other for like, the first two-thirds of that movie.

"Here." He sends me a file. 

It's a sketch of Lieutenant Violet with her iconic sniper rifle from Season 3, drawn, fittingly, in shades of purple. Super rough, but it slays me all the same.

"It's pretty old. I'll draw a better one next time," he says.

"This is great already. You watch the show?" I ask.

"Used to. It got worse after Season 3."

"How DARE you."

"It wasn't bad, but the story escalated way too much—"

"Nonononono, the wormhole attack plotline is _extremely good."_

"Really?"

He smiles at my annoyance, and it's kind of goofy, and much like the ending of Shrek, it's like I really _have_ befriended a dragon – without getting into the more _physical_ aspects of the inter-species relationship which that movie implies.

In this virtual world, the sky's still grey.

The hockey team prepares for battle. _Claaannngg_ , goes the sign in my imagination. _Clang, clang,_ one person after another. A ritual, leaping for good luck. Finn not wanting to be there, but there anyway. I wonder which one of the sketchbook figures is him.

Whichever one's gazing up at the clouds, thinking about spaceships.

Part of me still wants to acknowledge the awkwardness we're trying to overcome but perhaps it'd be unproductive. It's not like we don't know – saying "let's make the best of this" would just make it... harder. What would we even _do_ , anyway? Shake hands like boring adults? If we can both be mature and not assholes to each other, that's a start (and 'not assholes' is actually pretty good for many families). I usually like being super obvious about my intentions, but in this case, I might let it slide.

He sits next to me, a kid with too many bones.

I probably don't have enough.

"Hey, Pendant!" Izzy says suddenly. "Instructions, pleeeeease!'

< _Yes! Hello! >_

"I've been trying to message you for like a minute, we're almost at the central hub power reactor place thingy."

_< Good to, ah, hear from you. So, the route is complicated, but the Mesh will still be active around the reactor to provide directions. A friend here with me has complete maintenance authority and they can lend you their access credentials.>_

Ahead of the transit car, the hub's underside looms. Vacuum doors open as the monorail slows, entering a tunnel that spirals into bleached polymer. Without a reference point it feels like we've been moving pretty slowly but the tunnel walls are a blur – it's easy to forget how big Starfish is.

< _Unfortunately, there are several aspects > _Pendant continues. _< One, rebooting the drone systems to get_ _US out, and two, lifting the station's orbit to get EVERYONE out. It would be lovely to reroute life support priorities as well but who cares because everything's already too far gone and we're all going to die? Is that right? That's probably right. So, yes, two aspects. Neither task should take very long and ideally you'd handle both from the primary control centre, but we believe that particular option has been... destroyed. By the boarders. To prevent you from doing what you're about to do. You'll instead have to visit each system and activate them manually. >_

"If they wrecked the control centre, what makes you think they didn't wreck the manual systems too?" Izzy asks.

< _Hahaha. Ha. >_

"What?"

_< Hahahahaha!>_

"...Hello?"

< _Joshua, the child I'm talking to told an extremely funny joke! No I'm not scared. I'm alright. I'm_ alright _, Joshua. >_

"Pendant?"

_< Aha! Yes! Sorry. I'm sending you the location markers, and the codes. And remember certain unsavoury people might be listening in so please, make yourselves moderately scarce. I would hate for anything to happen on our account. Maiming, or death, suffocation, or... well, you can fill in the rest of the list yourself, I'm sure! Sorry, sorry sorry sorry. Good luck!>_

* * *

We enter the station proper. The transit car comes to a stop.

< _ALERT: Radiation warning! >_

"Helmets on," Marko says. "Doesn't look great out there."

From the train doors, it's a short drop to the wall below. I land awkwardly, resenting the slice of pain in my injured leg. The transit platform's cracked like an egg and it buckles inwards, half-shattered, revealing skewed rooms and squashed, claustrophobic passageways beneath. 

Pendant's route takes form in my MeshMate: a glowing line that runs along where the floor should be, then turns through where a door would've been, into the maze beyond. With gravity being screwy, it's anyone's guess as to whether it'll give us reasonable directions.

< _Radiation warning! > _my vacsuit repeats. _< Neutron flux detected. Vacate the area immediately.>_

"Is anyone else getting a vaguely worrying alarm?" I ask.

"Yeah," Marko says. "My suit's already at half its rad limit."

"Is that bad?"

"It's definitely not good. Any way you cut it, a nuclear meltdown is way more serious than stray cosmic rays. It's more radiation than we can handle."

" _Is_ this a nuclear meltdown?"

"Stations use fusion," Finn says.

I turn to him. "And?"

"Fusion reactors are safer. Less radioactivity. They shut down if things get out of control."

"Then what's causing the radiation?"

Finn doesn't reply.

Izzy grins. "Godzilla?"

"Don't turn this into a joke," Marko says. "Radiation exposure can kill people in literally minutes. The _less bad_ option is getting your life expectancy cut in half. I don't want to be taking anti-cancer meds for the next fifty years, do you?"

"Chernobyl was was a hundred years ago," I say. "This isn't the same."

"It's still dangerous."

"Yeah, but we can find a way around the leak. And if it gets worse, we'll stop."

Marko stares at me for a second. "I don't like this. We shouldn't be here."

"Okay. Then what?"

Nobody has an answer, and I realise they're waiting for me.

Oh, yeah. I guess I'm the reason we're here.

Breath fogs my visor.

I'm nervous.

I'm angry.

I'm determined.

I'm vibrating.

"We'll be quick," I say.

The first step feels strange, but the next isn't so bad.

A sign, on the ceiling to my left:

Central Reactor Control

300 m

I leap up and slap it with my palm.

We lower ourselves through the tear in the wall, into a steeply-slanted room. It's a drone storage area, well-lit, with dozens of human-sized pods stacked in rows.

< _Mesh connection established. Welcome, Alex! >_

"Shit, the Mesh is back," I say. "You guys getting that?"

Izzy jumps. "Oh my goooood, I missed it _so_ much! Aaahh!"

It's a familiar prickle at the back of my skull, like icy water flowing too fast. Information starts scrolling down my vision – popups, timers, directions, labels, all animating and settling as they paste onto the environment, in a uncomfortable yet comfortable mix of colours and styles and fonts. It's a mess, but... it's a mess I know how to navigate. A mess I've grown up with. A mess that – now that it's back – feels like part of me has been resurrected. Unconsciously, I begin sifting through the dozens of new datastreams, blocking some, amplifying others.

The Mesh derives its name from the fact that it's embedded in our environment: miniscule sensors, batteries, processors, transmitters, and actuators, set into the polygrowths that make up houses and roads and skyscrapers (and space stations). In one sense it's a gigantic, distributed nervous system, billions of particles cooperating to form a living solar-system-spanning network. Operating the Mesh at full capacity is expensive, in terms of having to power it and process data, so it tends to self-regulate to the level that's needed or possible, focusing on more important tasks and places. Information, pumped like blood to where it's needed most.

I can't help downloading the station's latest news packet to make sure the outside world still exists. A slick, minimalist interface spreads out around me, the headlines being read aloud to my subconcious. Its design tricks me into feeling relaxed, yet attentive at the same time.

_< Solar flare disrupts communications and delays launches across the system.>_

_< Relaxation of internal grafting laws considered a victory for transhumanists.>_

_< Members of popular band 'Cyberdunkers' accused of sexual misconduct by fans.>_

The walls are now layered with virtual murals of an African savannah (from when such things still existed). Holographic popups provide arrows to different sectors, with visual previews of destinations.

< _ALERT: Radiation warning! >_

"I don't like this," Marko says again.

"It's still under our limit," I say.

"Worth it for Mesh access," Izzy replies. "I was _literally_ about to die."

"It's not like you can download that much out here," Marko says. "Everything has to go through the station comms anyway. Do you know how long we've got until Pendant's deadline?"

"He said more than an hour," Izzy says. "So, ages."

"Yeah, but it took us fifteen minutes on the monorail, and it's gonna take us fifteen minutes to get to this reactor, at least, then another half an hour to get back to you guys' mum... and that's an hour gone. Do you think she'll wait that long for us?"

"She'll wait," I mutter. "She was pretty keen on us staying with her, remember? She won't give us up that easy. Then we can leave."

I can almost believe it. As if to argue, a cute dog starts barking at me about Coca-Cola loyalty points, for the thousandth time, followed by a genderless blue virtual assistant asking me where I'd like to go, if I'm hot or cold, to please drop by the nearest infirmary because of unusually high stress levels. A sweet, rose-garden scent fills my nostrils. Melancholy jazz, in the background.

I activate my semi-legal adblocker and tell it to play my own damn music.

We squeeze past debris, the wall bulging inwards, our path a quarter of its original size. Everything's covered in a powdery white residue, our boots scrawling messages for anyone behind. Sudden _clunks_ of machinery make me worried that the roof might close in permanently. Stairs next, tilted on their side, occupying an uncomfortable, Escher-esque headspace.

"People nearby," Marko says suddenly.

"What? Where?"

"I can see their Mesh signals, but it won't give me a location. Privacy reasons."

I wish they'd apply that to the stupid Coke dog which has actually been tracking me for _months._ Soon they'll give it permission start advertising in my dreams.

Past the staircase is a wide, tall, room, which reminds of a coffin and I immediately try and eject that thought from my mind. Where we are, standing on the wall, a line of thick windows protects us from open space. Catwalks criss-cross above our heads, leading vertically, bridging the gaps between huge, transparent cylinders that hum with barely-contained energy and rage.

There's a woman.

Crouching in front of us.

With a fricking _shotgun._

<Asdfghjkl!> Izzy hisses. Surprisingly good pronunciation.

Luckily – although it doesn't feel _that_ lucky – her back's to us. Green hair spills down her shoulderblades. I'm drawn to the grenades hanging from her belt, the dried blood covering one boot.

<She's waiting for us> Marko says. <They have to know we're here. Let's go back—>

<Don't move> I reply. <Don't make a sound.>

The radiation counter's ticking up again.

_< ALERT: Station systems are heavily degraded! Cause of emergency is unknown; please make your way to your designated evacuation pods.>_

My insides thump like a jackhammer. Pendant's waypoint is directing us to the left, up to the second level. <We can make our way past> I say. <Hide behind the closest catwalk.>

<That doesn't seem like a good idea> Marko whispers.

<We can be quiet.>

<This is not a good idea! Alex!>

<Shhh.>

_Run._

_Run, now._

My clenched sphincter could cut hardened steel.

I take a step.

Unbearably slow.

Another step.

Into the open.

The woman puts a finger to her ear, listening to her commlink.

Then, she looks over her shoulder, and there's no fucking chance she doesn't see me.

I realise there's _another_ person in the shadows behind her.

Shit?

BANG! 

A shot, but not from in front of me – from behind.

From Izzy, who's kept hold of one of our stolen pistols, and is now aiming at the window beneath the shocked woman's feet.

BANG! 

Window cracks. Woman recoils. Another blue bolt zipping past my shoulder. It shatters.

I cannot fucking _believe_ the last three seconds but apparently it happened all the same and I bear-hug the nearest catwalk and tell my gloves and boots to stick.

 _WhoooossshshshosohsHSHSHOOHSOHOS_ —

Air suddenly chock-full of dust and debris, whistling past in chaotic streams as it's sucked into space along with anything not sealed inside my suit. An emergency shutter behind the shattered viewport tries to close. It snaps down onto something big and metallic that jams it in place. The shrieking wind doubles in intensity. My teeth rattle. It's fogging up, starting to freeze.

The others haven't slid past me yet. I hope that means they're still okay. The nearest hijacker's doing her best to hold on, legs bent at weird angles, till the _other_ suited figure comes flying across the room, hits her. They both lose their grip and slide across the plastic. Her suit thrusters fire and she flips up wildly, a grenade tearing free of her belt and—

 _WHOMP!_ A stun concussion rips through the fog and my flesh-puppet body and I'm three milliseconds from letting go, probably already would've if there wasn't a person-sized weight on my back. The woman slides—

—through the gap in the shutters—

—grasping at nothing.

Her body dislodges whatever's blocking it. The shutter bites down, sealing the wound. Air spirals back on itself, robbed of energy. Debris skitters across the floor.

Izzy, somehow, is still holding the pistol. Too big for her hands.

I collapse to my knees. Feels like the atmosphere's been sucked out of me, too.

Marko lies flat on his back, rubbing at a scratch in his faceplate.

Am I alive?

I'm alive.

Most of me's still catching up. "Everyone... good?" I ask.

"No. We're not," Marko says.

"What's wrong? We're okay, right?"

"That's not the point. I'm done."

"You're... what?" I blink. "Why?"

He points at Izzy. "You."

She drops the gun. "Hey, I—"

"You're crazy."

"Don't use that word," she retorts.

"Fine, then how about ' _if you're going to do shit like that, I don't feel safe around you_.' None of this is safe. We should drop this stupid plan and leave before somebody else _dies._ This entire situation is _fucked_ – which I shouldn't have to tell you, but here I am, telling you – and we had a chance to get out and you _threw_ that away! You all did! Why are we still _here_?"

"We have to keep going," I hear myself say. "We're almost there."

"Are we?" Marko asks.

"We have to keep going. We have to help."

"No. We don't."

I glance at the shutter, buried under wreckage.

"This is stupid, Alex," he mutters. "We _can't_ help those people like this, not if we're surrounded by deadly fucking radiation and have to make choices like spacing two other people out of a god-damn window—"

"Was there a choice?" I ask. "They would've..."

"What? Killed us? We don't know that. Even if they were going to, that DOESN'T make this okay. So yes, there was a choice." He glares at Izzy.

"Please don't argue," Finn says nervously.

"We basically murdered two people. You're okay with that?"

"They were wearing suits!" Izzy says.

"Yeah, but if _one_ other thing goes wrong, they're are dead! Because of you! Because of us, too! I'm done with you making those decisions for us!" His anger radiates like a furnace; not violent, but controlled.

"Oh, you're done with my decisions?" Her eyes flash. " _I'm_ done with you being a _coward_! No one buys the 'dark and mysterious' act! You're just trying to fit in like everyone else, another frickin' asshole trying to be the popular one. "

"I'm TRYING to stay alive!"

"You're scared."

"Because we _should_ be! We're stupidly out of our depth, we're on our own, but if we consider LEARNING from our mistakes—"

"This wasn't a 'mistake'. It was me saving your LIFE. Besides, I totally remember you nearly shooting some people are hour ago—"

"But I didn't. I very – expressly – _didn't_. I didn't eject someone into fucking space. I didn't nearly eject _us_ into space." He folds his arms, breathing heavily, then turns away in disgust. "You shouldn't have done that. It isn't fair."

"The universe isn't fair." She walks up to him, planting her feet. "So, neither are we. We can't afford to be fucking _fair._ We are alive. Because of _me._ "

Her voice crackles. It makes my hair stand on end.

I stare at Pendant's waypoint, diving deeper into the station's interior. Three hundred metres, it says. I need to do something. Tell them both to...

"I'm going back to the train," Marko says.

Everything's about to shatter. Like Izzy shot the world, and not just the window. Or maybe it's just me.

"Marko," I say. "Don't. Please."

"Why?" he asks.

"Because..."

Because what?

Anger, and fear, and relief on his face.

I thought we needed each other. We _do_ need each other.

"I'm leaving," he says.

"Then leave," Izzy says.

And he does.

He's gone.


	17. Alex

We've decided to split up.

Yeah, I know. Huge violation of horror movie rules. But in the interests of getting shit done ASAP, Izzy's heading to the drone control centre while Finn and I find the station's secondary bridge.

Finn's quiet by my side.

A lump of otherness.

I'm a lump of iron, I tell myself.

The lump of shitty, pockmarked iron I made for a design project in Year 7. It was supposed to be a lamp stand with three stubby legs but I messed up and the casting mould collapsed half-way through. I chucked it on our roof at one point and it must still be up there, blocking the gutters and generally being ugly and unhelpful.

Fuckin' love metaphors.

"This feels like a beehive," Finn says.

I was just thinking that. 

A honeycomb of copy-pasted chambers extends in every direction, hundreds and hundreds of cells, each containing a vibrating piece of machinery – batteries, cooling towers, data servers, resource cyclers – monolithic worker bees buzzing with exchanged energy. They're connected by valves, gates, doorways, which open and close in synchronised yet mysterious patterns, like how bee colonies defend themselves by pulsing their wings in hypnotic rhythm: ripples of biology, driven by unwritten reflex.

Izzy actually _volunteered_ to go alone.

She even smiled about it, so bravely it was yet another spear through my heart. Like it was nothing, and that none of this was affecting her. I wish she'd _said_ something, though, about how she felt, or if she cared, or if there was any doubt in her mind – something to make me feel better about pushing on. Something to make _me_ feel less responsible.

Selfish, huh?

I can admire her, while also being glad that she's the one going off on her own.

Each chamber has seven entrances – five horizontal, two vertical – and that, in my opinion, is _too_ many. We stick with going up, towards the station core, using a grease-smeared ladder as a walkway. My leg's behaving better, at least, taking my weight without much protest.

< _Collision warning > _the Mesh says. _< Saturn encounter will occur with 70% certainty in 84 minutes. Station systems are attempting to adjust.>_

What are we even doing? At this point, twelve people trapped in a storage room seems like far more of an abstract concept. We could still leave, right? Call Jira, tell her we're on our way. I could experiment with the nebulous concept of 'optimism'. I can still hear her pleading. _'There's something I have to show you.'_

Acidic words inside the coppery box of my mind, fizzing away, boring into me.

Maybe Marko's right.

I mean, he's _definitely_ right.

But equally, I don't want to be wrong. I'm trying to _do_ something, here, and although I don't have a concrete reason other than _not_ doing it would definitely piss me off...

Look, we don't know how many others are on board, or how much work would be lost forever if we _didn't_ try saving this place. For now, that overwhelms the melancholic emptiness looming both ahead and behind me.

If Marko was here, he'd say something smart.

Stick to your guns, Alex.

_Run._

It'd be easier to do that if it wasn't pitch bloody black.

"I'll be honest – not a huge fan of this vibe," I mutter.

"Try infra-red view," Finn says.

"I am. There's so much interference my MeshMate's having trouble."

Walls swim beneath waves of sandy static. Batteries are crushed blocks of shadow while cooling towers shine with overexposed white. The fluttering doorways whisper like wings, or wind, or witnesses, depending on how much of an _artiste_ you'd like to be. Overlays and newsfeeds flicker in and out of existence as we float through fraying datastreams.

"You ever see that movie Abyssal?" Finn asks.

"As a matter of fact, yeah. Wish I hadn't."

"This, um, reminds me of that scene when..." He trails off.

"When the annoying teenagers get ritualistically slaughtered by alien parasites and the girl _very specifically_ named Alex is trapped and eaten inside a space station recycling plant? That one?"

"Uh... right. Sorry."

We duck beneath a gas tank that radiates heat on our faces. The walls are like sunburned skin, warm and rough and honestly, kinda gross.

"What about you?" I ask. "Ever been killed off in a horror movie?"

"I don't watch many horror movies."

"Yet here you are, thoughtfully reminding me about Abyssal."

"That... wasn't my pick. I saw it at a sleepover."

"Well, lucky you. Next time, ask your friends to pick a movie with more pink in the title – one where all the 'I's are dotted with love hearts. Bonus points it there's a girl smiling on the poster with three or more love interests of varying ethnicity."

"Another kind of horror movie," he murmurs.

"Fine, yes, I appreciate the cynicism but at least it won't give you nightmares."

The guts of the space station tense, then relax. Doors ahead of us open as gates behind us close, and it's tempting to believe we're entering the same room over and over, stuck in machine-heart purgatory. I slip on the next rung of the ladder, landing in a puddle of oil. 

Too dark.

Thick, warm air.

Horror movie air, in my opinion.

"There _was_ a kid named Finn," he says, "who fell into a vat of synthetic meat growths and got dissolved into thousands of Hungry Jacks burgers."

"Huh, I don't remember that. What movie?"

"Real life."

"Well, that's grim."

Finn decides to leave this hanging.

"So," I say. "Did people eat those burgers?"

"I think so, unfortunately. It was on the news."

"Okay, I suppose that's a fact I now have to live with? Pretty sure it also strengthens my argument that everyone should watch bullshit high school romance movies once in a while, and not effing horror movies, because the worst that happens is maybe someone gets caught kissing behind the bike racks and their mum makes them work extra shifts in the family cheese shop instead of going to the school dance and before you get judgemental I also watched Schindler's List recently and thought it was very moving." While distracting myself _is_ nice, I wonder if a scene-by-scene recital of Netflix's crossover hit _Loving You Feta_ is revealing too much about myself. I scratch my neck, roll my shoulders, a pretence of teeth-gritted normalcy.

Sometimes, when Finn speaks, it's like he can't quite match pace between his brain and his mouth. Words tumble out in bunches. "In some ways... that commodified version of high school from stories and videos is its own kind of horror... that's way more pervasive and insidious than serial killers and monsters."

"Okaaaay, sure. I agree? Mostly? On the other hand, 'school' is only horror if you let it be, or if you have that viewpoint, and I'll remind you we're currently hiding by _literal_ monsters."

Wires dangle from the ceiling.

Fingers of shadow, clutching at me.

"These are... exceptional circumstances," Finn says. "But true."

"I'm trying not to be too naïve or whatever, but the pretences associated with 'everyday' fears and worries are mostly due to personal perception and efforts, right? Like, okay, some people have terrible school experiences, but it's not worth being afraid of most of the crap that happens."

"It's not worth being afraid of falling into a vat of artificial meat either... well, probably not. But you could argue that... asking someone out and being rejected is a far more relatable and relevant fear."

"Have you asked anyone out before?"

"Well... uh." He doesn't actually say no, but it's pretty clear.

"You should try it, it's honestly not that hard. Some of my friends are _extremely_ desperate." I drop my hand to knee height. "The bar's about there, so you'd definitely clear it."

"Thank you?" He smiles briefly, an electric ghost. "Or would that be the start of an actual horror movie."

"Haha, okay. You win. There's one girl, Jayshree, who'd _definitely_ eat you alive. But it is a weird thing where you get a girlfriend or boyfriend for a week, and school's suddenly paradise, and then you break up after two weeks because you're both idiots and everything's awkward and shitty, but hey, it's only a bad time if you let it be, right?" I'm still talking too much. 

It's not like I'm _afraid_ of shadows; I've never been scared of the dark. But as each hatch opens, I'm expecting us to suddenly be bathed in colour, and to have a ghostly, radiant creature fix us with a predatory gaze I'm not even sure it has.

I suppose that as each hatch opens, I'm low-key expecting to die. That's fun.

The next hatch opens, and I am bathed in colour.

My heart spikes.

Birds dive through my chest, a stream of starlings, circling around my head. I flail backwards. _< Starling interplanetary travel! The best-reviewed* low-cost** travel network for students! Interest free until your graduation!> _They chirp in formation, amid glitchy artifacts of blue and pink and green. _< Apply now for a special rate toooaaaaaghhhhhkkkk... to... STREAM LOST.> _Their chirps turn to screeches; I swat the last couple away and they turn to polygons in my hands. _< Apply nooooowwwwww...>_

I stare accusatorily at the darkness. I think I nearly knocked Finn over. " _I don't like you._ "

"Um... me?"

"I meant the advertising." I step forward, daring the Mesh to manifest more bullshit. "This is a nuclear BLOODY reactor, not a shopping district––"

< _HELLO! THIS IS PENDANT!_ _HELLO?! >_

This time I do knock Finn over (or at the very least, I slap him with my ponytail). "Dude, okay! Stop yelling! What's up?"

_< Teensy-weensy update to say that Dr. Aizawa left us_ _and has not returned. We don't know where she is. Do you know where she is? >_

"No. She left?"

_< That is indeed what I said.>_

"And you don't know where?"

_< HELLO? HELLO! IS THIS CONNECTION WORKING?—>_

"It's working! It's working. Faaar out." I sigh loudly. "She didn't explain? Or do anything weird?"

_< No, she simply— actually, Joshua has asked me to relay that the station is behaving strangely. More strangely? Not the Mesh, but... something else. He saw lots of lights, he says. He thought it was someone's torch. Or someone shining a light on us, from outside. Oh. Hmm.>_

"I would, ah, stay away from that."

_< It's a locked room. We've no choice in the matter.>_

"What the _hell_ is Jira up to?" I whisper, to Finn.

He shrugs.

"She said she'd free those people, right? She _said_ that, when we left. Why'd she lie?"

"Maybe she..." Finn shakes his head. "This isn't like her."

"What do you mean? What's changed?"

"It just— isn't"

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"Ugh, dude, that's not helpful." I frown. "Pendant? We're continuing towards the bridge. We're almost there. Send an update if anything changes."

_< Yes. Fine. Thank you.>_

"Bye."

This is getting worse by the second.

I glance at Finn, then do a couple of little jumps on the spot. "We should run. There's not much time."

He nods. "Okay."

I take a couple of steps.

One.

Two.

Slow at first.

Then my foot slams on the decking, springs in my joints propelling me forwards, muscles in my calves and thighs shivering with sudden effort. The lowered gravity gives me a bounding stride.

The first breath.

Arms flying.

Not like clockwork, _better_ than clockwork, building up rhythm and speed and the simple joy of being weightless on my own two feet. The world narrowing to an arrowhead of purpose, its own kind of freedom.

Elastic.

Unwound. 

On bad days, my body is unwieldy. On good days, it's limitless. The path opens as I run, room after room after room, Finn matching as best he can my moronic headlong sprint.

I think this is what I've always wanted. No past. No future. Just a maelstrom of... home. Friends. Sky. Righteous anger ahead of me, ancient fear at my back. I chase it through more glitched-out holograms, flickering vistas, waves of sound and smell, radiation warnings rattling like Geiger counters. The shadows never leave; can't beat the dark. But as long as I'm using up every breath there's not much I can do about the rest. Finn's sticking with me, close behind. My leg barely hurts anymore, leaving pain in the dust.

Too soon, we reach the waypoint. I skid to a stop, Looney-Tunes style.

< _Collision warning._ _Saturn encounter will occur with 72% certainty in 75 minutes. Station systems are attempting to adjust. >_ _  
_

We're blocked by an airlock in the floor, leading to the station bridge. "Is this supposed to open?" I ask.

"Not responding to Pendant's code?"

"Nope." It's like somebody's tried to force it – handle twisted, scorchmarks along the hinges. Either way, my trusty shoulder can't bust through this particular obstacle.

"I can squeeze through there," Finn says.

I can barely see what he's pointing at: a gap between two panels, wide enough (?) for a person, leading down. I can't tell if it's an official crawlspace or unofficial damage. "You sure?"

He sticks his head inside. "Yeah. I'll fit." Quickly, he wriggles out of his suit, undoing the various seals and joints; then hands it to me, patting down messy hair and crumpled clothing. The crawlspace doesn't seem big enough for a modestly chonky cat, let alone a lanky sixteen-year-old, but Finn lies down and pushes himself forward, chest scraping against the textured polymer. His shoulders disappear, then stomach, surprisingly fast. 

"Didn't know you were part caterpillar."

I'm not dignified by a response. He rolls onto his side, bending around an unseen obstacle.

In that past I thought I was okay with silences, but this trip's proving that apparently, I am not. "This is a really wanky question," I say. "But do you have a favourite word?"

He's completely gone, now.

Heavy scratching.

"Because one of my friends and I do this thing where we send each other random cool words that we come across. And I just got the ones she sent me while we were in cryo. Like, um... boustrophedon. That's a good one." I scan the list that's popped up, along with a message from my parents. "You doing okay?"

"I ran into... doesn't matter." He sounds preoccupied. A few more moments of miscellaneous clanking, then the door unbolts and pulls inwards, Finn dangling from the handle, looking like his arms are about to fall off. There's a bunch of black stuff in his hair, dripping down his face; he wipes it away, eyes bright and strained.

"What happened to you?" I ask.

"Broken pipe."

"Fair. That'll do it."

"Also, tsujigiri," he adds.

"Tsuji-what?"

"Tsujigiri. It's when, um, a samurai buys a new sword, goes to a crossroads and decides to test it out on random people walking past."

"Heh. That's fun."

He smiles wanly, a puppy anxiously attempting to please an overbearing owner, though I'm frankly doing some of my best work at being capital-n Nice. 

I drop through the airlock into a banal set of rooms. There are messy workspaces littered with thermoses and computers, rows of bunks, a workshop corner where an oxygen recycler lies half-dismantled. It looks like living quarters for a skeleton crew, or a place you could run the station from on a long flight. Our route leads downward, around a corner, to another airlock a few metres above us. My suit lights illuminate the words ' _Auxiliary Bridge'._

"This door isn't gonna open either," I say. "I feel like Pendant really oversold his access codes."

"Mmmm."

"I'll give you a leg up, if you wanna check it out."

I kneel down, lacing my fingers together, and give him a quick boost, since the physics probably work better with me doing the lifting. He steadies himself against my shoulder, examining the door controls.

"It needs a key," he says. "Two keys actually."

"Okay, well... let's look around?"

We split up, rummaging through desk drawers and disk drives. This place _is_ empty, though my instincts keep telling me I'm trespassing, or being monitored. If you've ever wandered around a school at night, it feels like that – a broken kind of mundanity. I half-expect somebody to walk out from behind a closed door.

But, of course, nobody does. I start looking through a cupboard.

< _HELLO! IS ANYONE THERE? >_

"Aaah! Hi Pendant."

< _Hello. Just a_ brief _update to inform you that you've got roughly twenty minutes. >_

"Wait, what?"

_< I've run some numbers. Starfish has been accelerating for a dangerously long time and its velocity has changed more than we expected. Accounting for maximum thrust, there's only so much delta-v to impart per second _ _to counteract it_ _and— >_

<Hellllooooo, Isabel speaking!>

"Izzy?" 

<Hi Alex! So, I'm at the life support place and I think I'm connected to the right drone systems, but—>

< _Wonderful! Brilliant. Are new search and rescue drones still available? Those will be under the 'emergency' command directory. >_

<Yesyesyes, totally, but I don't have any power. Alex, I need power. Can you send me some power? Some juicy electricity?>

"Gimme a minute, there's still one effing door in our way."

Where would you keep a key? Not in a random cupboard, that's for sure – you'd keep it in a designated spot everyone knew about. Or you'd slip it in your pocket and forget about it. Or you'd hide it, if someone was trying to take it from you. "Finn?"

"Yes?"

A millisecond of shock, as if I'd been cleaning my bedroom at home, called out, and heard a stranger's reply from down the hall. "Never mind."

Running's mostly an individual sport.

Relay races _are_ a thing, though. Right? And like, hurdles 'n' stuff. Do they do relay hurdles?

For god's sake, Alex, defining your entire life with one clumsy metaphor might make things neat but, much like eating doughnuts for every meal, it's probably bad for you. I'm in a tiny kitchen area, with dozens of spilled foodpacks squelching underfoot. Distractedly, I open the fridge.

Two keycards are nestled among the orange juice.

Either there was a struggle and somebody tried hiding some keys in here, or they've got the same problems as my mum after half a glass of wine.

We meet back at the airlock, and I've seen enough heist movies to know we have to insert both keys at the same time. "Three, two, one—"

The airlock opens.

Finn climbs through, then helps me up. His arm's shaking. So's mine.

< _Collision warning._ _Saturn encounter will occur with 81% certainty in 69 minutes. Station systems are attempting to adjust. >_

Trapezoidal windows encircle the bridge, some obscured by Mesh readouts, others giving way to space beyond. Saturn's _there_ , real and resplendent, streaks of pale yellow cloud given clarity by morning sunlight (clouds which I'm sure could swallow Earth twice over, and are more than sufficient to tear through one tiny space station). We're so close that I think I can see them moving, vertiginous storms and whip-thin jetstreams racing each other around the equator under the watch of distant rings. Tentacles, perhaps, of some giant beast, hidden and waiting for some unlucky morsel to pass within its reach.

The bridge is approximately dome-shaped, with tiered acceleration couches surrounding several different control consoles. I think the entire room's supposed to rotate depending on thrust direction, so that up and down always feel like up and down. Clearly, it's forgotten to do that, tilted at an uncomfortable angle. This whole goddamn day has been a series of uncomfortable angles.

"Technically, this is probably illegal, right?" I ask. "Commandeering a vessel?"

"Probably."

"Do you think it'd be classed as piracy? Or like, mutiny? Or breaking and entering?"

Finn shrugs. "All three?"

"Well, that's exciting." Time to figure out if we can reasonably pilot this thing or if alternately, I've just wasted our last few moments outside the underworld. "Pendant? Got any instructions for us?"

<Y _ou're there? Great! You'll want that first console on the left. That'll let you override the primary command system, if it isn't already. >_

The console powers up when I touch it, spitting out details about system permissions and power levels. The bridge Mesh is augmenting my vision with external camera views, as if I've gained a hundred new eyes spread across the station's bulk. "What now?"

< _Confirm the auxiliary bridge override. That should be on the 'main task feed', if you can spot that – and reroute any available power to the propulsion and life support blocks. >_

Pages of confirmation dialogues, to check if you _really_ want to shut down the heating system and let everyone freeze to death. Neon lines snake from the reactor to icons on a station map. The two main power sources are solar panels – last resort, since there's not much sunlight this far out – and a pair of fusion cores. "Uh, Pendant? Most of the available power _is_ being used. I think that's what these graphs are telling me? One of the reactors is completely dead."

< _Understood. >_

"There is a big chunk going to a... tachyonic shielding system?"

< _Disable it. Shielding's only needed when we're running experiments. >_

"Disable it?"

_< Confirmed, send that power to the engines. Experimental conditions won't matter if the station, well, you know. Oh, gosh, so much work down the drain—>_

I glance at Finn. "How do you feel about responsibility?"

"...Ambivalent?"

"Then I'll press this scary button, and you press the next one."

I can physically _feel_ Saturn growing larger. Quickly, I switch off the power, shutting down the shields. Power levels equalise, then flow towards life support.

<Got it!> Izzy shouts. <Wooaaahh, look at all these _sparks_! That's probably bad, huh?! Launching drone buddies... NOW!> Moments later, a pair of bright blue flares zip past the windows. They arc outward from the station, then spiral out of sight. <Did you see that? I think they would've shot right by you!>

"Yeah, nice work! Pendant, what's next?"

< _Check the pilot's console! The biggest one, middle of the room._ >

This control station has physical buttons, but it's also on the ceiling. "You reckon you can climb up there if you stand on my shoulders?"

He squints. "Probably? Then I can use my suit to stick."

"Sounds like a plan. If not, I'll just chuck you." I dust off my gloves. "Pendant, is there a procedure we need to look for or do we just, I dunno, put the gearstick in reverse?"

 _< You'll have to— Joshua, what is it? Listen, you'll need to input a set of properties for a new thrust vector – magnitude, direction, timing – Joshua, I _know _, I'm telling them – what's that? You can see the— oh. Fuck. >_

"Pendant?"

< _Oh no. >_

"Um, hello?"

_< They're – they're here! I didn't realise—>_

The channel erupts with screams.

My MeshMate tries to filter the audio but it's just... screams.

Voices. Fragments.

Deafening static.

< _Stop! His head— >_

_< —smashing through the door!>_

_< —went into—>_

_< Joshua, get away from—>_

Electronic warbling erupts in my ears, as if dozens of voices are laughing in both in joy and mockery.

Demonic kookaburras on the solar wind.

Across the station.

Inside my head.

I clap my hands over my ears, but that doesn't do anything to—

_< Connection lost.>_

< _Collision warning._ _Saturn encounter will occur with 83% certainty in 63 minutes. Station systems are attempting to adjust. >_

I crouch down, arms around my knees. "Izzy? Izzy, you there?"

<Yep, yep, I'm here. That didn't sound good. That really didn't sound good—>

"Can you contact Pendant?"

<Nope, everything's gone dark.>

"Well, shit _._ "

The Mesh is silent.

I want to get those sounds out of my head.

"Where the _hell_ is Marko?" I groan. "He was the bloody pilot prodigy, wasn't he? Didn't he do, like, antigrav racing or something?"

"Yes. He did," Finn says quietly.

"Man, his parents must be loaded. _Bloody_ idiot had to _bloody_ leave instead of being _bloody_ helpful... I can't believe we're doing this. You'd think it'd get easier to do crazy bullshit after six hours of doing crazy bullshit, but no. Still an effing nightmare."

I throw a few air punches, hard and fast, which energizes me less than usual but it's better than nothing.

 _Focus._ Focus. Don't let it get to you.

Control it. It's fine. You're okay. You can do this.

Have faith in yourself, even if you don't effing deserve it. "Finn?"

"Yes?"

"Let's turn this station around."

His eyes are closed, somewhere else, but he nods. _It's fine, it's fine,_ over and over, drowning out the other me. The mirror me. The real me. _It's fine._ I bend down, Finn climbs onto my shoulders, and when I straighten, he honestly weighs less than my six-year-old cousins. I keep steady as he stretches for the ceiling, grabbing the console with his suit's gecko gloves. After some creative wriggling he jumps up and sticks his feet there too, like a bad Spider-Man contortionist.

"What's the view like?" I ask.

"Lots of buttons."

"Familiar?"

"No."

"Think you can work it out?"

He umms and aahs under his breath. "Looks doable."

"That's what I like to hear."

I wait for him to work it out.

He fiddles with a touchscreen. 

Below me, below the window I'm standing on, the blackness is perfect. Suffocatingly perfect, like I'm suspended over nothing.

It's fine.

"I have to flip the station," Finn says.

" _Flip_ it? Like a pizza?"

"Um, we need to increase the minimum orbit radius, which requires means increasing the orbit semi-major axis or decreasing the eccentricity, or both... It's more efficient if we point the main engines anti-parallel to our flight path, plus a bit in the radial direction. So, um, yes. Like a pizza."

"Let's assume that hypothetically, I didn't pay enough attention during orbital mechanics classes to know what that means."

"Also, the 'flip' might be uncomfortable. It's technically supposed to happen over a day or two, and not, um, minutes? You should warn Izzy, and, um... Marko."

"Izzy?" I open another link. "Heads up for more weird gravity crap. We're doin' a flip."

<Oh! OK. I'm actually making my way towards you guys but I can wedge myself in a corner.>

"Is Marko still MIA?"

<Yep! Sorry.>

"Alright." I catch Finn's attention. "Ready when you are."

He pauses, takes a breath. "Starting now."

< _ALERT! Unexpected attitude manoeuvre. >_

A blue line appears in the Mesh: a visualisation of our path, curving into the planet, its end marked by flashing danger signs (the kind that signal a very unpleasant end to somebody's skiing holiday). It's accompanied by a schematic of the station, which lets me see dozens of tiny attitude control jets firing along each arm. Whale-sized control gyroscopes spin up from dormancy.

Outside, space shifts to the left.

Millions of tons of station start to spin.

At first my eyes are playing tricks on me, and then I feel it in my guts: centrifugal force dragging me sideways. I plant my feet against the steepening incline. "Finn? You okay?"

"Yeah," he coughs.

The pull's getting stronger, a river racing towards a waterfall. I start slipping, and stumbling until by balance shatters and I'm thrown sideways, in a weird arc like a cricket ball with too much spin. I hit the window knees first, splayed against the glass. Finn's barnacled himself to the console, hanging at a weird angle. Space and planets and moons slide past us like balls of lint in the galaxy's biggest tumble dryer. It's actually difficult to breathe, like my chest doesn't know where the air's supposed to go.

< _Coriolis effect! > _ my MeshMate chirps, as if that's supposed to help.

A minute or so later, the spin dies away.

Could be worse, I s'pose.

Saturn's flipped 180 degrees.

_< ALERT: Radiation warning.>_

"Uh-oh," Finn murmurs.

"What's up?"

"There's a radiation spike whenever I try and increase the engine power... could you check the reactor readouts?"

I crawl to the console. "It _looks_ normal?"

"Then I'll... hmm. I'll try turning the drive off and on again."

"Will that work?"

"It works whenever my PlayStation breaks."

He sounds remarkably neutral about all this. 

Ten seconds later, we're back in zero-g. The subconscious blue glow from the station engines has vanished, its surface returning to dull, dirty white. I anchor myself to the closest panel;

Finn flicks a couple of switches. "Take like, ninety percent of the power from the engines. I'm restarting them."

"Sure." Our plotted trajectory is one segment of an enormous oval orbit and we're much closer to its end than its start. (Is it still an 'orbit' if it ends?) There's reams and reams of information available but there's no time to understand it or have the Mesh explain to me, so it remains a comforting cloud around my thoughts. I float amongst the wiring diagrams, transferring energy.

_< Radiation warning. Radiation warning. Radiation warning.>_

A couple of throaty coughs and acceleration starts to return, with the stubborn inertia of a few hundred Titanics. My display barks at me. "Hey, the reactor doesn't like what you're doing. It's showing me a lot of... stuff. Bad stuff."

"Okay. Let me try to, um... Sorry, the instructions here kinda assume you've had training. I'm improvising."

"Improvising?"

"Working through it, I guess." He's sweating.

"Well, I think you're doing _fine_. The reactor's spiking again."

"We're at twenty percent thrust – can I go up to fifty?"

The graphs on my screen look like a heart attack. "Uh..."

Our acceleration increases as the rad alarms blare. Finn starts methodically testing a second set of levers, and every few moments there's a planet-busting _CLUNK_ as if another gear is slotting into place, accompanied by a barely-controlled wobble. An injured bird, finding its wings. 

The trajectory's changing, though, extending itself, flattening out, as we hurtle through space on a slightly different vector. The stars, for their part, are completely stationary, though it feels like they should be streaking past us lightspeed-style. "Keep going," I say. "Radiation's under control."

_< Radiation warning. Radiation warning. Radiation warning.>_

"I don't think I can go any faster. The engines might already be damaged... or overheating, or—"

"Or the reactor's busted?"

"Maybe. There's an long-term endurance mode I can try which is supposed to automatically... oops. Problem."

"Problem?"

"I can't can control this anymore. A safety autopilot took over but I think it's broken. It's locked me out."

"The _safety override_ is broken?"

"I'm guessing that whatever the hijackers did caused some errors in the system." It's like he's still mumbling about PlayStations.

"What do we do then?"

"Um."

"Finn, what do we do?"

He drops to the floor awkwardly. "Ride it out?"

Thrust increases by the second.

I try diverting power from the engines, but no response. My body's already heavier than in Earth gravity and it's only getting worse. _< ALERT: Acceleration warning. Acceleration warning. Acceleration warning.>_

We heave ourselves into the nearest crash couches and my muscles ache from even that small effort. Cushioning gel slides around my limbs and neck and head, icy cold, claustrophobic. My suit pressurises to accommodate and make sure my blood stays in all the right places. The Mesh says we're doing five Gs – five times standard gravity.

Six.

Seven.

I forgot to warn Izzy.

The bridge fixtures rattle, or maybe it's just my bones. My eyeballs are being squeezed by pincers. Every breath's a soul-sucking effort.

Ten Gs, and I'm starting to get worried.

World's worst rollercoaster. No twists. No turns. Straight-line force. Couldn't move if I wanted to, arms and legs pinned, fingers and toes trapped, staring straight ahead at absolutely nothing. Physics is a blacksmith's hammer, a hydraulic press, the station engines roaring at me or maybe that's only panic. Spit clogs my throat and I can't even swallow.

The station's arc continues to rise.

Seat's shaking.

Eleven Gs.

Twelve.

_< Acceleration warning. Acceleration warning. Acceleration warning.>_

My MeshMate's trying to keep me alert, or at least alive, but vision's fading. Can't even see the sun any more. Everything's just... grey. A blur.

Constant pain.

_CRUNCH!_

Something breaks and it luckily isn't me.

It's the engines.

We're weightless again.

My heart claps against my ribcage, suddenly free. I grip my armrests with aching fingers, hoping the wave of relief I feel isn't simply my soul ascending into heaven. I open my jaw and it clicks back into place.

"Still alive?" I ask.

Finn has to think about it. "Looks that way."

The gel restraints dissolve. I sit up, tasting acid in my mouth.

< _Collision warning._ _Saturn encounter will occur with 33% certainty in 55 minutes. Station systems are attempting to adjust. >_

"You are _effing_ kidding me," I say. "Thirty percent? After all that it's still thirty percent?"

"Less than half," Finn murmurs.

"I _know_ it's less than half. It's not ZERO."

If the anger that's been driving me is a boiling pot of water, bubbling away, it's gone unreplenished for far too long. Soon, it'll start burning and there'll be smoke billowing everywhere and if I'm lucky, the whole house might not burn to the ground.

I want to run.

I _can't_ run. There's nowhere to run _to_.

"Maybe Marko was right," I say aloud. "Maybe we are out of our depth."

I swing myself out of the chair, floating aimlessly.

Vague, disappointing nausea. I can't even muster up the will to be sad. I'm just... empty.

It's like I don't have context anymore.

Or I've finally had enough.

Out of adrenaline.

Out of feelings.

I hate it.

We float back towards the beehive, pushing ourselves through the dying station. It's weird, but I actually wish I _would_ feel sad. Or scared. Or disappointed. 

Anything but _nothing._

Nothing only gives me more room to think.

We should've stayed with her. Then we'd probably be off the station already, and being asleep in cryo for three weeks on the way back to Earth sounds basically divine. Three weeks of happy dreams? Sign me up. Nobody would've cared that we ran. Nobody's going to care that we tried to help. If anything else goes wrong, right now, and we don't make it...

I can't even remember what my house looks like anymore. It's all fuzzy, out of reach.

Just me, floating through these endless hallways.

And Finn.

I open my visor, so I can wipe my eyes.

Phantom tears. I'm not actually crying.

"Are you okay?" Finn asks.

"Yeah. I'm fine." My voice sounds like it belongs to somebody else.

I hate being like this. But it always happens, every time I try. Like I'm trapped by a present that never changes, unable to find the way out. Waiting for a parcel that never arrives.

No ways forward. No ways back. 

Or the roads are there, but I can't see them. Other people can, but I can't. I'm always _stuck._ Like there's something wrong with me, or like the world won't let me open my eyes. I know it's illogical to feel that way, but I do.

Empty.

Stupid.

Useless.

So, I run.

"It's unfair," I say, mostly to myself.

"We tried," Finn replies.

"We _tried_." I roll my eyes. "The universe doesn't care that we tried."

"But I do." He glances at me. "So do you."

"And that's enough, is it?"

"It can be."

He floats beside me as we re-enter the grid of pentagonal chambers, thin face full of concentration as we leap from handhold to handhold. Honestly, he seemed much more calm trying to steer a space station than when I talk to him. Some people are just awkward in their bodies, but comfortable inside their heads.

Maybe that helps.

When it comes to that emptiness.

A universe that doesn't care, but people who do.

"We're really different, aren't we?" I say. "Obviously."

"It would we stranger if were the same, I think."

"Guess so. But also, I was going to say that it's not... a bad thing." I look down. "It's hard to think about, that's all. Us, I mean. Your mum. Everything. But I want it to work out. And it will. I was actually getting ready back there to do an inspiring speech about how we make a good team or whatever, but... far out. Seems pointless now."

He glances at me. "Even good teams have to lose sometimes."

"Yeah, well, they're also supposed to win occasionally," I mutter. "Nobody _wants_ to finish bottom of the ladder."

"There's still time."

"For what?"

"For... the future." He shrugs, kind of. "For, um... us."

"Just gotta get back to Jira first, right?"

He nods.

"Thanks," I say.

I realise I mean it. 

"No problem." No eye contact, but a nervous, sidelong smile.

And that _does_ make me feel a little less empty.

A switch, clicking inside me.

A new feeling.

A couple of minutes later, we run into Izzy, who isn't back at the transit station. Instead, she's plugged into one of the data servers we passed on our way to the bridge, the cable snaking from her stomach into a MeshPort.

"Uh. Hi?"

"Alex! Finn! Hihihi." She jumps, nearly tearing out the cable. "You're alive."

"Yeah, mostly. What are you... doing? Here? Now?"

She tries too hard to laugh. "Oh, this! So, um, cool story. I had that déjà vu. From earlier. After we split up, I cut through a lab-thing? A workshop? And it was totally like I'd been there before."

"Wait. Seriously?"

"Mega-serious. I closed my eyes and I _remembered_ where the stuff in that room was. It was so _clear_. It felt like people talking, right at the edge of my hearing and even though I couldn't quite pick up the words I could mouth along to what they were saying. Like watching a movie you've seen a hundred times. And I definitely haven't been on a station like this before."

"Okay, _weird,_ but that doesn't explain why..."

"Well I was thinking that since we're _so close to_ the monorail I could take five minutes to investigate. I pinged the Mesh and saw that this creepy beehive-looking place was totally _stuffed_ with secure data servers. Private ones not accessible from outside."

I try and kick my brain into a gear that isn't 'apathy'. "Hypothetically, if we _had_ been here before, there might be records. Right?"

"Exactly! And like, I don't know _why_ that'd be true, or why I wouldn't remember any of it... but checking it out would definitely make me feel better. So, I made a quick detour, and since we had Pendant's code anyway, it was easy to get access." 

Finn folds his arms worriedly. "Do we have time?"

"It'll take, like, _two_ minutes," Izzy says.

He doesn't look convinced. "Have you had any more of that déjà vu?" he asks me.

"Nah. Not yet."

Izzy sniffs the server box inquisitively, as if divining its secrets. Status lights blink. She licks her lips, sifting through data. I notice that she's picked up a few more bruises from our manoeuvring – including a rather fearsome black eye – and has reached the point where if she was an apple, I'd definitely think twice about eating her.

"Sorry about the tumbling earlier, by the way," I say. "Wasn't much time to warn you."

"Eh, it was fine."

"Do you know if the drones worked? Are Pendant and those other guys okay?"

"Haven't been able to talk to them! The drones are zooming around though, doin' a bunch of search and rescue stuff. They're super fast... and these servers are hella fast too. The data's super nicely organised, sorted by date, type, tags... Anyways, I'm running our Mesh signatures and I already found our arrival records from a few hours ago. And biometric data from camera facial recognition."

"Okay, great," I say.

"Oooo, look! Hidden archive fiiiillles," she says, in a sing-song voice. " _Covered_ in our signatures. Lemme download 'em quick before anyone notices." Izzy swipes her hand back and forth. "Wow, these are _old._ What the— I wasn't actually expecting to find... wow."

"When you say 'old'..."

"Three years ago."

"As in, 2081 three years ago?"

"Yep."

"But there's no logical reason for them to have data on US from more than a couple of months back. Is there?" I float closer. "These archives have OUR names on them?"

"See for yourself."

* * *

It's a video.

I see a room. Electronics line the walls. In the centre sits a cage of shimmering light, which swims on the datafeed, like oil on water.

I see _me_. 

Staring through the bars.

I'm shorter. Stubbier. Three years younger. I see the dark red jumper I used to wear before I lost it on a camping trip; the way I used to keep my hair, shoulder-length, when I couldn't be bothered to care for it as much. My face, before I'd lost all of my baby fat.

Next to me are Izzy.

Marko.

Finn.

Kei.

Three years younger.

ILLUMINATION

EXPEDITION F-1

SUBJECTS 18, 19, 20, 23, 25

A woman waits in the corner.

She steps fowards, and takes Finn's hand, and leads him through a gap in the cage.

It's her. Jira.

She helps him climb onto a slab - a machine? - difficult to make out behind shifting colours. Both now and in the past, I check on Finn to see if he recognises what's happening, but his face bears only blankness; as if he doesn't want to recognise it, or simply doesn't.

Suddenly, a flash of light, like a slash across reality. It trickles, and flows, and starts to flood through, and I see myself start to back away and Finn—

The video ends.

* * *

Marko sits on a chair in an office.

A woman, off-screen, asks him questions. "Your brother – you were very close to him."

"Of course I was." He sniffs wetly. "We were... we were both..."

"Tell me if at any point you feel uncomfortable, or want to stop. We've gone through a lot today. It's alright if we take a break."

Marko nods.

"You were twins," the woman continues.

"Yes."

"You spent a lot of time together. Most of your time together?"

"Yes."

"I want you to tell me how he died. If you can."

Marko looks down, almost perfectly still. He sounds more boyish, in that awkward half-way phase. "It was an accident during training. He hit the wrong spot too fast and... they said it was faulty equipment. I'm not sure. I didn't see it, but... I was there. I didn't see it."

The woman pats his shoulder; I can only see her arm. "How do you feel? Talking about it now."

"Sad. Like..." He trails off. "Sad."

"That's perfectly natural." Her voice is familiar, though I can't place it. "Anything else?"

"...Ashamed."

"Really? How so?"

He shakes his head.

"Is that because of your brother? Your parents, perhaps? Your friends? What would you say you're ashamed of?"

Again, he shakes his head.

Then he smiles, almost looking at the camera. "Me."

* * *

I have a realisation. "Kei said nearly that exact thing. Remember? He told us his sister died in the grey plague."

Izzy's jaw is hanging open. It snaps shut. "Did he?"

"He specifically mentioned it because we were being vaguely insensitive. And if there's a record of _Marko_ being interviewed about this, I reckon we'll also find videos of Kei."

"'Kay, I'll check."

"Why would they care, though? I mean, it's rare for people to die that young, but... huh." I tap Izzy's shoulder. "Any interesting corpses in your closet? "

"Nope. Maybe my grandparents? They kinda raised me and we _were_ super close, more than usual since my parents couldn't be around. My grandma died four years ago, and my grandpa a few months after."

"Were they already gone in 2081?"

"Yes, they were. Alex, I'm very confused right now! And annoyed! I thought this was an _internship_? There's _videos_ but I don't remember being here when I was thirteen!"

"What about us?" I ask Finn. "Your mum's alive, my parents are alive, and unless there's a third sibling we _both_ don't know about... Dude, please _._ What about your dad?"

"He's alive," Finn says.

"You know, or you think?"

His nose is bleeding. "I think."

"Maybe that's not the connection. OK, some of us we were sadder than average, but is that theONLY thing we have in common?"

"We really should go," Finn says. He's trying not to show any emotion and I suddenly want to slap him.

"Fine, fine, start walking. Also, the woman who was asking those questions—"

The gate opens before get there.

It's... Marko.

He seems surprised.

Then he recovers, a grin on his face. "Hey!"

"Marko!" Izzy squeals. She rushes towards him.

I can't help feeling happy, though I also feel I shouldn't be. "I thought you left."

"I did."

Then another voice, behind him: "Where are they?"

We freeze.

My heart stops.

"Here," Marko says.

Khorin floats through the door, leading a squad of six hijackers. 

I'm confused.

He claps Marko's shoulder, smiling with peculiar happiness, then raises his gun, covering us. I stare down its awful black barrel. "Guess what?" he says, the words sweet in his mouth. "Your friend sold you out."

Then—

—I'm—

— _angry_.

The pot inside me bubbles up and overflows, exploding at Marko, myself, the whole effing world and I jump at Marko and punch him in the god-damn face before the better part of me can take control. My fist cracks and he flies back and there's boiling water hissing everywhere and before I know it I've been shoved to the ground and there's shouting, and screaming as the hijackers surround us but to me that seems a waste of fury and I struggle red-hot against the figures pinning my arms behind my back, holding me down, assaulting us.

"Don't move! Hands UP."

"Stop it! What are you doing? We—"

"You're coming with us. Don't fucking move!"

Restraints are clipped around my wrists. I'm lifted up roughly, elbow around my neck. I stamp on the foot of whoever's holding me but they just pull tighter. I wheeze. Finn's shoved against a wall. Izzy's wriggling in zero-g as two attackers try to hold her still. I think she bit one of them. 

Guess they can't afford to play around anymore.

Khorin forces Marko to his knees, handcuffing him. Marko dares to argue, gets a punch in the ribs for impertinence. His lip's bleeding – hopefully my fault.

" _Why_ ," I growl, above the blood roaring in my ears. "You asshole. You fucking _asshole._ "

I don't know if he hears me.

The look in his eyes says he doesn't regret it.

"This way!" Khorin barks. "Keep them quiet."

They push us through darkness, heat, endless gateways, each question or stumble met with brusque violence. Izzy shrieks. A gun barrel stabs against my spine. I float forwards, arms tied too tightly.

It hurts.

In so many ways.

The restraints sting when their microscopic needles dig into my wrists.

My head swims.

My arms fall limp.

Moments later, I black out.

* * *

Blearily, I open my eyes.

Something in my stomach, in the air... I'm going to throw up.

I'm being carried.

Voices: "—fucking frustrating."

"Yeah, they got out. Probably because of these guys. Competent little shits, huh?"

Strange lights in the hallways.

* * *

Sick. Lightheaded.

World moves too fast.

Purple, green, blue, entire forests worth of trees, swimming behind my eyelids.

Trees become dunes, shifting in desert wind.

Red. Yellow.

The hallways never end.

* * *

I'm slapped awake by an immense headache – pounding, impaling, hammering pain into every thought.

"Yeah, this is the place. Get them inside."

We're in a plain, grey-walled antechamber. I'm not sure if it's my imagination, but I hear a bell tolling: distant, but all-encompassing, growing, then fading. My chest shivers uncontrollably. The glowstrips flicker, split seconds of darkness.

The walls narrow. My feet float above a pockmarked polymer floor.

Here, at the end of everything, lies a thick metal door. The type of door that's implies it's supposed to stay shut.

Taped to it is a handwritten note.

'Welcome,' it says.

'To Illumination.'


	18. Finn

This is a nightmare.

A joke.

Both?

There's a line from an old TV series that goes, 'all of this has happened before, and all of this will happen again', and perhaps that commentary on human nature was more prescient than I thought.

I'm not scared.

Weirdly, I'm not.

I'm... apprehensive.

Accepting.

My wrists ache, pinned behind my back, as the others slowly wake. Alex raises her head, blinking in the half-light. Izzy struggles, futile fists against her captor's back. Marko's still unconscious (or pretending to be). Blood trickles from his split lip. I wonder if I should have warned them – if that might've changed anything. Behind my endless anxiousness I _did_ want to explain, but always felt it needed more time. For my benefit. For theirs. Whether it's working up the courage to send a simple text message, or asking the teacher a question, or figuring out what to have for lunch, or what to wear... I'm always overthinking events, and consequences, and how people see me. That's the trouble with having no confidence – by the time you've built up enough, it's too late, or you spend it all on something simple and have to re-start from zero.

Arguably, there wasn't _much_ time.

Arguably, I didn't suspect this was a setup until I was already on the shuttle.

But, I had my suspicions. There _was_ time.

I reckon I was hoping we'd change course without personal intervention.

I'm too weak to despise that part of myself; I tell myself that life is fine, that I don't need to change, but I should, and life would be better if I did. Of course, realisation isn't actualisation and changing how your head works is never easy, regardless of how much you'd love to be different.

In any case.

Too late now.

The Illumination chamber, as we enter it, gives off the impression of a tomb: an austere monument, buried deep beneath the earth, with air that's never seen sunlight. It's an enormous hollow sphere fifty metres across, the walls formed from interlocking geodesic panels. On either side of its equator are mirrored observation galleries, or control rooms, dense with seating and screen readouts and protected behind tinted, curved windows. Tall, thin pillars stretch from floor to ceiling, barnacled by unidentifiable electronics.

The chamber's core is smaller sphere one-third the size. It possesses a slight plasticky sheen, like it's covered in adhesive black tape, and is only enterable through a vault-like airlock. Sprawling cables span that gap from outer sphere to inner, like tangled roots nourishing a seed.

As my eyes adjust, leaf-green spots of light chase each other across the core's surface, faintly visible, like hints of starlight on a lake – occasionally glinting, rippling, as if tadpoles are breaking the surface. Whenever that happens, there's another mournful, bell-like _riiinnnggg,_ travelling through the pillars and cables, making them vibrate like a passing train.

We're dumped in the space between several pillars, and one pair of guards keeps watch while the others clear the area. There are six total, and against this backdrop, they all look small. I lean against the nearest tower of electronics. Despite the gloom, it feels warm. I swallow, trying to clear my throat and chase a semblance of calm.

My friends, back on Earth, always think _I'm_ the one who has my life sorted out.

But this? This isn't a person who has life sorted out.

I'm good at staying calm – that's all.

I'm good at going at getting my schoolwork done and sleeping before 12AM.

Good at ignoring the fact that sometimes, I'm too sad to bother staying awake.

Alex and Izzy are whispering to each other. Then Marko cracks an eye open, tries to move but mostly can't. One of the tricks of zero-g: without momentum, or a surface to push off, you're left to wriggle around in place. Izzy looks like she's considering trying something stupid but shuts up when a guard shoots her a glare. She raises her middle finger behind her back.

Then, the pillar beside me _moves._

Parts of it shift, slowly unfurling. Silver plates, connected to joints and motors.

Some of these stacks of lab equipment aren't lab equipment. They're _robots_ , huge robots three or four times my size, curled up tight as if they're part of the furniture – crab-like, smooth-shelled, bristling with sharpened limbs and implements. Several are hidden strategically around the chamber and they detach from their perches with unusual delicacy, the motion nearly imperceptible. The closest reflects my face with in its chitinous underbelly. It's near enough to touch. I'm frozen. Is this good? Bad? The hijackers are looking in all the wrong directions and I'm watching a tiger stalk an unwitting mouse, muscles bunching as it readies to—

<DROP YOUR WEAPONS>

<COMPLY>

The bots blast a warning across the Mesh and soar towards the chamber roof, preparing to rain down a very unpleasant crossfire if anybody so much as blinks. Each hijacker is immediately staring at a plethora of stunguns, tracking smoothly, a storm of lidar pulses lighting up my vision.

<NONLETHAL FORCE HAS BEEN AUTHORISED>

<COMPLY>

Most people have the sense to drop their weapons.

All have the good sense to not fight back.

For now.

A long pause.

Khorin narrows his eyes, but there's not much he can do, trapped out in the open. It's like the whole room's been turned to stone by a vengeful Medusa.

Right on cue, my mother glides forth from within Illumination's sphere, not a hair out of place. "I believe," she says, "that this would be a good time to talk."

Ah. Okay.

Well, I guess I'm happy to see her?

Alex doesn't look quite as happy, and neither does Khorin. "You're Aizawa," he grunts.

"Correct."

"Maritime said you'd try and stop us."

"How prescient. A pity you weren't slightly more so."

"We'll see about that."

"I'm sure. I assume you're an underling? An accomplice? She'll be very disappointed in you, allowing this to happen." Then, she notices us. "Finn! Alex. Hello. This is convenient." She catches her relief before it becomes too obvious.

"Say what now?" Alex asks.

"I'm rescuing you."

" _Are_ you? Then I won't ask questions about the freaky robot army."

Said robot army doesn't seem to take offence.

I'm still nervous.

This might be an improvement to our situation, but I want to be sure it'll stay that way. I wish my mother wouldn't stay in the open, the focus of everyone's attention, and likely the first to be shot if things tilt further sideways... but she can't help drawing a certain 'presence' to herself. That presence was especially terrifying whenever she told me off as a kid, but I grew to appreciate it, when it meant I could fade into her background without anybody seeming to mind. Right now it feels strange, though. Or... different. Ever since I saw her on that projection in the security control room, and then saw her for real, I can't help thinking that it's not truly _her_. It's like... a sketch of her, that's been half-erased. A sketch, over a sketch, over another sketch, and I need to tilt the screen a certain way to see what used to be there.

"I'd like to negotiate," my mother says. "If that's acceptable."

Khorin nods, with distinct reluctance.

My mother glances over her shoulder. "It's safe."

Cautiously, another group emerges from the sphere.

"Pendant! You're okay!" Izzy says.

"I definitely am _not_ ," he mutters. He's part of a posse of station staff and looks distinctly worse for wear, clutching one shoulder, missing his glasses and roughly half his hair, but... alive? Traumatised, but alive. Another woman, raven-haired, grips a pistol with a thousand-yard stare.

"I did rescue them," my mother says, to us. "As I said I would. So – let's continue."

"Weren't there more?" Izzy asks. "Pendant, where's everyone else? What happened? We heard a bunch of creepy stuff on the Mesh, and then... ugh." She shudders.

"Let's continue," my mother says. "Now, before this goes any further, I would like you to tell me where—"

_wwwhhaAP! WHAP WHAP WHAP!_

Plasma bolts scythe from the left and right control rooms, closely followed shockwaves of shattered window, and several of the bots are consumed by storms of sparks, more shots ricocheting from the core, and I curl up and duck but not before a glittering glass shard slices a gash through my cheek. One, two, three more bounce from my suit. Multiple armoured suits sweep into view from either side in controlled attacking arcs. The bots swivel to track. Pain hits me, sharp, quickly dampened. Am I OK? Are the others OK? Shadows, swarming everywhere, and— _zzzaaap!_ An ion charge smacks one of the bots and it deactivates in a tangle of silver legs. Supersonic beams pinball back and forth. One attacker, the another gets hit clean in the chest and they smack against a pillar, immobilised. My mother's taken cover, above the inner sphere. I can barely see through the crackling energy and I do my best to make myself as thin as possible. Shrieks of torn air. A sharp _click_ as Khorin reloads. The bots are forming a battle line, scanning the room. Blood drips into my mouth. Khorin's up again, shooting _rat-tat-tat_ and my mother's nowhere to be seen in the hail of debris and smoke and I don't know which side's winning—

"CEASE FIRE!"

A voice like an orbital cannon. It needs to be, to make people listen.

I touch my cheek, feel the cut throb, while subtly looking around. There are, from what I can see, three groups: my mother and the other scientists, above the sphere, with three remaining bots; Khorin's squad of soldiers, with us in tow, hiding behind various pillars; and the dozen new arrivals, pincering from the observation galleries on either side. This new group is commanded by a tall, grey-haired woman – the same woman we first met on the docks, before Izzy set off the charges, a lifetime ago. I wonder if there'll be any other last-minute arrivals, or reversals of fortune, but no.

Just an uneasy standoff. For now.

My mother straightens. "Hello, Maritime."

The woman nods. "Jira."

My mother's expression is one of distaste, as if she's stumbled upon a container of mouldy food at the back of the fridge. "This fiasco, then, is your responsibility?"

Maritime smiles, but it's carved from rock. "I'd argue it's the result of _your_ work. Regardless, you were right about one thing: we _should_ negotiate."

"It would've taken much less effort if you'd tried that from the beginning, instead of trying to destroy all we've worked for."

"I did _try_ , make no mistake. I tried 'negotiating', and I was discredited. I tried again, and I was threated. I tried again, and I was almost killed for it. So." Maritime folds her arms. "Here we are. Talking. Because, for better or worse, I happen to find myself in front of an old friend."

"An old friend giving you one last chance to turn back."

"How serendipitous. What are the odds, of finding each other here?"

"Low."

"But not zero, clearly.

They regard each other, separated by a mere dozen paces.

"You realise why I'm here," Maritime says, more softly.

"Likewise."

"Don't force me to go through you."

"I'd rather not. But, for now, we remain free to discuss this – like reasonable people."

Maritime chuckles humourlessly. "Ten years ago, that might've been apt. We both know it's too late to be finding common ground."

"We can choose to try. I think you and I would both be happier if we did."

"Perhaps." A long stare, then a nod, as she turns to her soldiers. "Haiji, Lyra, try setting up the network shunt. The rest of you, keep them covered, but stand down." One by one, weapons are lowered on both sides. Two of the new arrivals glide into the left-hand control room, making for one of the dormant consoles, as the rest of the room watches.

"Is that strictly 'talking'?" my mother asks.

" _We're_ talking," Maritime replies.

"Even so, two of your people appear to be trying to access my servers."

"They wouldn't have had to if your servers had been easier to access from outside. It makes people wonder, Jira, exactly _why_ you'd go to such lengths to hide what gets done here."

"Don't be facetious – you understand exactly why. Call them off, now.

"But the data's important. More important, even," Maritime says. "So, it needs to be erased. From here. From backups. From the Mesh. We'll fingerprint it, then let a wipeworm loose on the remainder." Her tone makes it sound like a forgone conclusion.

"Please... please don't," Pendant says. He looks... haunted.

"Is there a reason I should be listening to you?"

"That data is my life."

She sets her jaw. "You'll survive."

"It's true, though. It's true." He gestures to the other scientists behind him. "Destroying this work is such a _waste_. So much effort, and promise, treated like it's – it's heresy, and we're back in the 1500s and Galileo's getting thrown in prison. Why are you people so intent on this, anyway? What the hell's in it for you? You don't know what this is!"

"Do you have access?" Maritime asks the soldiers.

_"Looks promising."_

"Then work quickly. We'll set the charges at leave in five minutes."

" _That_ ," my mother says, "is altogether too much 'not talking'."

"Don't do this," Pendant echoes. " _Please_. I don't know who you are, or—"

"I was you," Maritime says. "Ten years ago. Then I grew older. Wiser. And if you sit there, and follow instructions, you might also get that chance."

A blur of movement.

The scientist next to Pendant takes something from her pocket and—

 _CRACK!_ Khorin shoots her in the shoulder.

She keels backwards, cloth stained with blood.

Pendant gapes.

Someone's screaming.

"Help her," Maritime says.

Pendant rushes forwards, hovering over her.

Can't hear what he says.

Did she have a gun? I think she pulled a gun. My brain's maintaining a sense of distance, as if I'm watching actors in a play, and not events that are happening twenty metres in front of me. Gasps of pain, in my ears.

"I wonder who'd be victorious," my mother says, "if we started attacking each other again. It would be close. Three XN-9s against... nine of your terrorists?"

"Activists," Maritime replies.

"My robots _will_ start shooting – I guarantee it – unless you do something for me, too."

"Which is?"

"You can start by freeing those students."

Maritime swivels towards us, suddenly worthy of her attention. "Yes, the intrepid summer students. That's what you are, correct? I recognise the spectacularly unfortunate timing, but if you'd simply listened to me from the start instead of gallivanting across station this operation could've been finished hours ago. I appreciate persistence, but only when it's directed at the right cause."

"We were _persistently_ trying not to get killed by _terrorists_ ," Izzy retorts.

"For a terrorist, I've made a remarkably consistent effort at not destroying Starfish while you were still on it. Khorin, move them closer, but _don't_ let them go. Not yet."

Brusquely, the guards grab us. I want to rub the reddened skin around my restraints, roll my aching shoulders, but I can't. Beside me, Marko arches his back, catlike, joints crackling like cereal which Izzy definitely hates. Alex looks ready to deck somebody too but manages to suppress the urge, settling for an extremely audible " _fucking assholes_ " instead.

"This is _your_ fault," Izzy hisses at Marko. " _Your_ fault."

He ignores her.

She shifts as far away from his as possible (about three feet).

We're now in the open, backs to the shattered control room windows; ahead, the core looms, and it tolls again, vibrating subtly, a _taste_ of sound more than properly audible, sort of scratchy, or eroded.

 _B-flat_ , Ferdinand says.

Maritime assesses us, a judge on a throne of impassive objectivity. Her steely hair and weathered face make her look older than she probably is, and perhaps more noble too, as if she's stepped out of a Roman fresco and into a high-tech spacesuit. In the hypothetical scenario of 'unstoppable force meets immovable object', she's definitely the latter.

"Did you find anyone else?" Alex asks. "A guy named Kei?"

Maritime turns to Khorin, who frowns, shakes his head.

"Then we did not," she says.

Then, she recognises us. I wondered if she would.

A desert plain, cracking to reveal wet clay beneath.

"Do you know who I am?" she asks.

"Um. Should we?" Izzy asks.

"Perhaps not." She thinks for a moment, then glances at my mother. "You should've told them."

"About what?"

"Don't, Jira. You're too smart to play dumb."

"Then you're more than welcome to reveal my secrets, if you like. I intended to tell them. I would've, if you hadn't rudely interrupted."

"Interrupting this—"

"Destroying it."

"—was the only morally-justifiable action."

"Moral justification for erasing peoples' work? Their homes? Their livelihoods?"

"Don't assume I'm satisfied with where we find ourselves," Maritime says. "We made every effort to act within reason. Regardless, it was irresponsible on your part to try this again and expect the opposite outcome." Her gaze passes over each of us in turn. "I'm... sorry. I didn't realise it was you. I should've realised."

"Realised _what_?" Izzy asks. "What's going on?"

"I think we should talk. Actually, no – we _have_ to talk. You deserve that much, after... after today's shitstorm." She sighs, controlled, but overflowing with frustration. Khorin grinds his teeth, then looks away. "If we sort this out, then you can make your own decisions."

"It won't help," my mother says.

"I don't care," Maritime replies. "Why deceive them in the first place?"

Her face is a gaunt; a stranger's face. "It would've made things harder," she says eventually.

"If telling the truth makes things hard, might be time to reconsider," Khorin grunts.

"Indeed. Not that it'll change much, in the end." Maritime gazes at each of us in turn. "Alex Hawthorne. Isabel Srichipan. Marko Niememin. Finn Aizawa. You can blame _her_ for this mess, even if you don't realise your part in it."

"Oh, spare me your simplistic reasoning—"

"What's our part, then," Alex replies. She folds her arms, trying to make herself look bigger. Trying not to look out of place.

Oh boy.

Water lapping at my neck.

"Are any of you familiar with the Illumination project?" Maritime asks.

"Not really," Marko says. "I've seen that name today, a couple of times.

It's not hard to retreat within myself, in a room full of soldiers.

"The Illumination Cooperative Research Centre is a government-sponsored scientific entity, originally an initiative of the Australian Space Agency. It was spun out of some work at RMIT, in which Doctor Aspen Guzzomi— never mind. The details are unimportant. The _focus_ of the CRC was to investigate certain physical phenomena related to faster-than-light travel; energy-minimal spacetime warping, et cetera. Initially, it was the sort of one-off scientific grant that devotes a few hundred thousand dollars towards an unusual idea in the hopes it _might_ pay off... which it did, when they stumbled upon arguably the most impactful physical discovery of the past century – a particularly sensitive discovery with volatile implications. Hence, the over-the-top secrecy. The project has been operating for three decades since, known to only a small group of core staff, of whom I was once a member. Doctor Aizawa is another. So were others on this station, including those with her now. I, on the other hand, chose to leave."

My mother laughs – ' _ha_ ', like a gunshot. "There are _reasons_ you're no longer attached to this project, Maritime. Will you announce those to the world, too? If word gets out of what you've done here... you'll be placed in a re-education facility for a thousand years, a thousand _lifetimes_."

"Implying we shouldn't let word get out."

"I'm all for truth," Khorin interrupts. "But you're creating more loose ends, by doing this. By telling... them."

"We'll handle it later." Maritime shakes her head. "We'll talk about _you_ later. Besides, I'd expect you to identify more with their position."

He narrows his eyes.

"Our first experimental demonstrations occurred fifteen years ago," Maritime continues, "but only recently has its full potential become evident. If you've heard of quantum string theory, Illumination was conceived as an avenue for exploration of this concept: that the structure of reality is underpinned by higher-dimensional threads of exotic matter, which support the physical universe that we're familiar with. It was hoped that by characterising the spaces _inside_ these strings – understanding how they behave, and evolve, and connect – additional physical truths would become clear. For the space agency, it was primarily related back to wormhole research, and spacetime warping. Clear so far?"

Marko nods.

Ferdinand does, too, as things unravel around me.

Alex is still cursing under her breath. " _If only we'd been fuckin' told this two months ago..."_

I stare at the back of Marko's neck.

Does he believe he did the right thing?

I'm trying not to hate him, for bringing us here – for making things unravel so very, very fast.

"The difficulty of this kind of characterisation is that the 'strings' exist on subatomic scales. However, one particularly naïve idea was to expand them into something we _could_ usefully measure, and it was found that by injecting strings with of certain types of radiation, we stabilised them without affecting their internal qualities. Eventually, we could make them large enough to be practically measurable. Ill-advised amounts of antimatter were required, and experiments were therefore constrained remote locations, but we were careful, and the research was successful. And we found..." She closes her eyes briefly, her mouth softening. " _They_ found..."

"Strings is a good term," Pendant says, unable to both hide his fear and stop himself from explaining, even as he tends to his fallen colleague. "They weave universes together. Imagine that you've got two sheets of fabric, and each sheet is a different universe – because of course, there are many universes. That's primary school stuff by now, isn't it? Multiverse theory, lots of universes, coexisting, but also not, blah blah blah. So, sheets of fabric, representing universes, and the sheets are interwoven by strings – grids of string, passing from one sheet to the next, connecting them, giving them certain geometry. And then you scrunch this cloth and string into a ball, and the resulting mess is... physics. Matter. Everything." He shrugs. "At least, that's how I like to think of it."

"Um. Okay," Alex says. "Sure. So what does expanding those strings do?"

"Ah, yes, the interesting part. People always guess, 'well, that lets you travel to other universes, doesn't it?' And, ah, that's not precisely true. It lets us enter the space _between_ universes, which I'd argue is more intriguing."

"Wait a sec," Izzy says. "Other _universes_? Isn't that, like, some weird theory?"

"It's a very good _weird_ theory," Pendant replies. "I do a lot of work in that field myself."

"Do we know what these other universes look like? Or where they are? Or how to get there?"

"No. No. Also no."

"But you figured out the strings are what's betweenthem?"

"Correct!" Clearly, he's found his favourite student. "Which is evidence in itself that other universes exist."

"'Between' is an odd word to use," my mother adds. "They're higher-dimensional spaces – it's not as if you could visit and... walk around. There's a lot of mathematics involved. Ideas of super-symmetry, and super-simultanaeity, and..." She shakes her head, in a faintly amused way, and for once she truly sounds like herself. "Let's avoid the details. But the expansion devices we constructed – including the first, fifteen years prior – were our entrances. Our windows. Our path towards experimentally proving these concepts, which is the focus of our extended work here."

"When you say 'window'," Marko murmurs, "I can't help but think of a glowing magic door."

"The majority are doors for photons, not people," Maritime says. "But not an entirely inaccurate image. Regardless, from what we've measured, a person wouldn't survive."

"And?" Izzy asks. "What'd you measure?"

"Light," my mother says.

"Illumination," Pendant adds. Then he winks.

"Indescribable amounts of energy," Maritime says. "Incredibly dense, changing... landscapes, you might call them. Our universe is mostly dark, cold, empty, but in contrast, these strings were almost entirely overflowing of light. Darkness, oddly, was the exception."

"Making them quite beautiful," my mother adds. "From a certain point of view."

"Beautiful, perhaps, but very strange. These spaces have structure, in a mathematical sense, the same way our universe has cosmic structure, and laws that define its behaviour; chaos bound by order, or random fragments forming purposeful wholes. It's difficult to avoid applying human perception to these kinds of things when truthfully, they're outside common comprehension of time and space, but... we started seeing recognisable elements, in the data."

"Like what?" Alex asks.

"Things. Places," Pendant says.

"You're _gonna_ have to be more specific."

"Take trees, for example," Pendant says. "If you took every tree ever, and stretched it into ten dimensions, for all time— mmm, scratch that. Let's say you asked a thousand people to imagine a forest, and pick one tree, and draw it, and you turned that combined image into a quantum loop? This isn't the best analogy. Basically, there are ways to interpret the data that _hint_ at familiar concepts, which is interesting, and even _more_ interesting is that Illumination regularly splits itself into distinct regions, with relatively static boundaries, each displaying unique composition and behaviour. It's a bit like the borders between nations on a world map. Same species, different cultures. Illumi _nations._ Get it?"

"I was never fond of such an obvious pun," Maritime grumbles, "but was... overruled."

"It was Farah's idea," my mother says.

"Really? She never said so. That is the kind of thing that amused her." Her slight deepening of wrinkles is probably as much of a smile as we'll ever see.

The core floats, our own private moon. Inside, windows to a space between. It's gained a curious sense of infinity, like gazing into a pool of unknown depth, even if it's still a metal pod surrounded by complicated shielding. The bell's constant echoes are making my molars ache.

Pendant waits expectantly. "You should ask about the people."

Marko takes the bait. "The people?"

"Thank you. I like you too. Maybe I'll offer to take an intern next time. The crux is that, yes, there were aspects – patterns of radiation – that give the impression of being, ah, alive, in Illumination. In one way or another. Judging it conclusively is difficult."

"The official term is 'entities'," my mother says. "Individualised, changing regions of Illumination, that possess purpose, or independence. Intelligence, even."

"Yes," Maritime replies, with a firmer edge. "Which becomes the source of our controversy."

"Entities," Marko says, rolling the word around in his mouth.

"So they're aliens. Right?" Izzy asks. "You discovered aliens?"

"No. Not exactly," Maritime says.

"But they're 'alive.' Pendant said they're alive. So—"

"Also, not quite correct."

"Then what the heck are they?" Izzy asks.

"They're dead. Or more precisely, undead."

"What?"

"Ghosts, spirits, departed souls. Choose your preferred term. Illumination," Maritime says, "is full of ghosts."


	19. Finn

If this wasn't zero gravity, you'd hear a pin drop.

"They're _what?!_ " Izzy asks.

"Dead," Maritime says.

"They're DEAD?!"

"Correct."

"Oh my god I'm on a prank show."

"I wish it were."

"This is a _heckin'_ prank show!"

The pain in my head is much too real for that.

"How do you... know?" Marko asks. "That they're ghosts?"

"That you can thank your MeshMate for," Pendant says. "See, if we die with a MeshMate active, it stores a near-perfect record of our consciousness – an electrochemical footprint of thought patterns and memories. Of course, it's illegal to _do_ anything with that footprint, since as I said – 'almost' perfect – but those records occasionally get stored for criminal cases and the like. And, once we started running pattern matching on our entity data? Our AIs found _frighteningly_ _close_ matches for the MeshMate images of people who'd recently died. Frighteningly close! Not in terms of repeating existing data – the MeshMate records weren't simply being copied – but it was as if the same brain was generating new thoughts, and _new_ memories. As if it _was_ that person, continuing to exist after death, reborn from the quantum chaos. The more we searched, the more we found, until it became statistically significant: these shifting, active regions of the string membrane that appear to be comprised of... people. Dead people." He shrugs. "Frankly, it's fortunate we stumbled upon that connection at all. It's not as if that's what we were expecting."

"They're... dead," Izzy says again, more contemplatively.

"In one sense, they're alive and kicking! But in the corporeal sense – quite dead."

"Spooky..."

"And you're certain of this," Marko says.

"Quite certain," Pendant replies, "though there is much we don't understand. What a discovery, though! Isn't it exciting? Such _incredible_ significance—"

"The problem," Maritime interrupts," is we appear to have discovered the afterlife."

"And that's the right word, is it?" Alex asks. She looks like somebody who's forgotten why they walked into a room. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but there ARE traditional concepts of Heaven, Hell, realms of the dead, so... is this one of those? Or isn't it?"

"Personally, I hesitate to apply such phrases," Maritime replies.

"It's more a... different phase of existence," my mother says. "Which appears to only be accessible after we die."

"Well," Alex says glumly. "Shit."

"Right?" Izzy says.

I try my best to look surprised, which honestly isn't hard. I can only imagine how the others feel. Izzy's got a million questions trying to burst through her skin, while Marko's... quiet. Marko's _contemplating_ something. Then, a sudden realisation spreads through him, all its terrible implications, as if he's seen a— well. I want to urge him to not to do anything stupid, to not open Pandora's box; to continue living with extraordinary pain even if that seems impossibly cruel.

My mother glances from person to person, eyes flickering. Like me, she blinks too much when she's nervous.

History.

Knowledge.

Tethers, connecting us, binding us to predetermined paths.

Alex stretches her shoulders, as if feeling it too. Figuring out where people go after they die has occupied a hell of a lot of humanity's headspace, ever since the first australopithecus had to bury a friend's bones – and five million years later, here's your answer. We live, we die, and... leap into the space between.

Between what and what, though?

What happens when we're born? Is it the same, but in reverse?

 _Is_ consciousness truly special then? How are other universes different?

"This is the last time I'll ask," Izzy says, "but this _definitely_ isn't a super elaborate lie?"

"I assure you," Pendant says, "that it's very much the truth."

She presses two fingers together in front of her face, as if focusing on them will prevent her from collapsing. "Alex, this is crazy."

"Yeah."

"All of those trashy ghost hunter TV shows are _onto_ something!"

"They most definitely aren't," Pendant says.

"Is psychic stuff real? Are _vampires_ real? Zombies? Magic? I hope vampires are real, at least. Isn't death, like, the thing that _defines_ life and if death doesn't exist, then how do people _deal_ with that? Everything changes, doesn't it? The world would be _so_ different, right? Like... huh. Woah."

"Yes," Maritime says. "As you've astutely pointed out, everything changes. I'll give you... three minutes, for the rest of this explanation. Then we decide what happens here."

"We're running out of time," Khorin grunts.

"I realise." Still, she waits for us to speak, with a subtle harshness that indicates that events _will_ proceed in three minutes whether anyone likes it or not.

"Have you found any living things inside?" Marko asks.

"We haven't identified any images of living people, if that's what you're asking.

"So it's all just... dead."

"Even before I left the project, we'd detected millions – billions – of energy signatures. Most were exceedingly unfamiliar, as you'd expect from Drake equation studies, so it was hard to say, conclusively, what the limitations are."

"The Drake equation..." Izzy says. "That's, like, an alien thing, isn't it? About finding other intelligent civilisations?" Her eyes widen. "You're saying there _are_ aliens in there!"

"It's difficult to speculate," my mother says.

"But have you tried talking to them?"

"Yes."

" _And_?"

"It's more challenging than simply broadcasting a binary code and hoping for the best. The flow of energy and information is—"

"Illumination _needs_ energy from other universes to survive," Pendant interrupts. "As universes expand, or contract, it acts like a pressure management system, or an elastic frame, and for that, it requires external energy and matter. We found that this mechanism acts through black holes. Matter from our universe gets sucked into black holes, which then gets pumped into Illumination via _white_ holes, in reverse. That's how we run our windows – we generate a miniature black hole and blast it with exotic matter to expand the Schwarzschild radius. Fun, isn't it?"

"I thought black holes were bad," Alex says. "Like, suck-the-Earth-into-oblivion bad."

"Not if they're controlled. Which is what we do – we control them. The core issue is that it's very difficult to get two-way information through a black-hole-white-hole network, so attempts at communication have proved... tricky."

"So you _couldn't_ send people through." Her eyes narrow. "Or a drone. Or whatever."

"Yes, too dangerous. _Far_ too dangerous. For information, let alone macroscopic objects, the dimensional transition has limited stability. It works well enough for occasional measurements, but solid material would simply be shredded into its constituent particles and radiation—"

"We've sent people through," my mother says.

"Uh. We have?" Pendant asks.

"Not quite," Maritime retorts. "You _tried_ , when you clearly shouldn't have." She turns to us, unexpected pain in her eyes amid the ever-present determination; the same brittle, jewel-cut edge that I've sometimes noticed in my sister. In the ensuing silence, my mother shakes her head, as if nobody could _possibly_ understand (in mathematical terms, maybe she'd be right).

"You always were incredibly short-sighted, Maritime."

"And you, Jira, are awe-inspiringly hypocritical."

"It _is_ safe, now" my mother says. "The tests worked. You've been away, so you haven't seen our latest results, but everything we've seen implies that conscious matter, if properly connected, would finally be able to bridge the gap between—"

"Stop talking before I sew your mouth shut," Maritime says, her voice like sandpaper.

Khorin raises his gun, synchronised with her words, and points it at my mother.

The battlebots twitch.

I gulp.

My mother, despite her urgency, seems impossibly calm. "Such a well-behaved lapdog, Maritime. Where'd you find him?"

"I'm not a _dog_ —" Khorin hisses.

"Khorin, don't," Maritime says. "If only you knew, Jira."

"You're _blind_. Whatever ideological crusade this is, it's blinded you to reality."

" _You're_ foolish," Maritime retorts, mouth barely moving.

They glare at each other.

It hurts more, to hate someone you're close to. I stare at Marko's back.

"That's true, partly," Pendant interrupts, smiling nervously. "Not the foolish thing, but— we were perhaps thinking about sending astronauts into Illumination. Illumi-nauts? It was under consideration for, ah... a future milestone. When it _would_ be safe."

"Happy to volunteer?" Khorin asks. "I'll shoot you now, and we'll see where you end up."

"I'm sorry? That is _terribly_ uncalled for—"

"'Cause I heard that last time, you weren't using volunteers."

"What 'last time'?" Pendant frowns. "There's no last time."

Maritime raises her hand. "Questions," she says, refocusing.

"What does this... mean?" Marko asks, choosing his words, finding time to think, trying not to let his curiosity show too nakedly. "The research. The station. What would you use it for? I guess my actual question is – why do you want to destroy it?"

"Right!" Izzy says. "Because if you guys kept studying it, wouldn't it, like, solve a ton of problems while ALSO being super interesting? What's wrong with this stuff? Because to _me_ _,_ blowing it up and maaaaybe trying to murder us seems like overkill. Like, MEGA-overkill. The overest-kill."

"A reasonable point," my mother murmurs.

Maritime considers this. "Tell me about the AI accords – and why they were put in place."

"They're... rules, aren't they? Governing limits on AI tech," Alex says. "Kind of like, I dunno, a Geneva Convention for robots. People were worried about AI singularities 'n' stuff, hardware or software becoming advanced enough to self-improve faster than we could control them. Robot uprisings, et cetera. To prevent people from leveraging something actively dangerous, there are laws which bake a bunch of limiters into every AI version, and there are certain things you aren't allowed to do with it."

"Yes, regulation can be important when decency alone won't keep us in check. Unavoidably, technology _is_ dangerous: self-replicating nanotech, nuclear energy, biometric profiling... Thus, society agrees to abide by precautions spiral out of our control." She exhales. "I _am_ a scientist. I believe in technology. But ethics are a necessary component of this process, and the Illumination project and its insistence on secrecy and aggression has refused to abide by that principle – for decades. And, as we crept further and further towards a point of no return, some of us grew to believe that drastic action was necessary. Before it might end... us. Everything."

"Sounds a little dramatic," Alex says. "But, sure."

"There have been incidents," Maritime says carefully. "Evidence that the entities in Illumination are... unfriendly. Or hostile. Their brain signatures display signs consistent with ongoing trauma and distress, as if they are in... pain. Enormous, constant pain. Our Illumination gates attract these entities, somewhat, and we observed them trying to force themselves _through_ , towards us. Into our universe." It's as if they're driven by the thought of escaping." For the first time, she seems unsure of her words. "As if they can't bear being inside."

"Okay," Alex says flatly. "So not the helpful Harry-Potter type of ghost, and more the demonic 'let's get a priest in here' kind? And when you said you'd found a higher plane of existence or whatever, what you _actually_ meant is that you opened a portal to effing _hell_."

"I wouldn't phrase it like that."

"What else would you call a pit of souls being tortured?"

"Those things we encountered," Marko says. "The lights – was that them?"

"Yeah, I bet," Khorin grunts. "Fuckers took down a bunch of my friends."

"It's not that _simple_ ," my mother urges. "There are hundreds of ways to interpret what we've seen, and most aren't that we've discovered so-called... hell. Or demons." She tries to smile, perhaps too desperately. "It's still very early; still so much we don't know. Even so, there are shielding mechanisms throughout this sector that prevent any possibility of a leak—"

Pendant shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Jira, but I saw it myself. I'm not sure how, or why, but they came for us and... they tore us apart." He shudders. "Joshua's dead. Alexei, Cascabel... they're dead. Can't even remember what they did..." It sounds like he wants to vomit.

"The portal's structure makes that impossible," my mother repeats. "We _designed_ it to be directional, to have polarity. The only reason _we_ can bypass it is by exploiting dimensional folds."

"Who's to say they aren't doing the same on the other side?" Maritime asks.

"Because it violates three different equations—"

"Jira, we haven't even _proved_ those equations. Are you seriously suggesting it's safe? You were _there_ the first time we saw an unexpected breach."

"Yes, and we _handled_ that situation. Several hospitalisations, very few deaths. Near-zero casualties. It was unfortunate, but we learned from it." She shudders, from frustration, fear, another emotion entirely. "These entities are clearly human, on some level, and I don't understand why you insist on being so afraid. If they're in pain, we can understand them. If they're angry, or terrified, we can understand them. It might take years, but that's unquestionably worth it."

Maritime grits her teeth. "The majority _aren't_ human, Jira. That's what worries me."

I float silently.

My brain races.

Parts of this, I'd heard already, but many details are entirely new.

I'm glad I'm invisible.

"Time," Maritime says, "to make our choices. Strangely, I am glad you're here, Jira."

"Why?"

"So we can talk."

"It's more so that you can pretend to listen, isn't it? Even now, your thugs are deleting the data we spent our lives on. They're destroying any hint that this place ever existed. This? It's a way for you to feel less guilty. This is a _performance._ At least have the decency to admit you won't change your mind."

"I'm not entirely unsentimental, but – yes, you're right. I probably won't change my mind."

She looks around, sparing a moment to think.

Machinery. Cables. Dappled light.

The bell echoes, a galaxy's heartbeat.

My mother sits on the closest console, legs crossed. She takes something from her pocket, starts fiddling with it, turning it over and over in her hands. And suddenly, it's like we're home, and she's sitting at the kitchen table, staring at nothing, fiddling with her keys. She'd do that, sometimes, after coming home from work, turning over a particularly thorny problem in her head.

I did ask about her work, a few times.

She never said much.

Or she lied.

Which, grudgingly, I can understand. Because Illumination – and everything it represents – would change the course of history. Obviously it had to be kept secret. I'm surprised it's managed to _stay_ secret. Existence, after death. _Pain_ , after death. That's the hypothesis, anyway; who knows how it might evolve. I take a deep breath, focusing on what's solid: my suit, my body, this dark room.

I wish we were alone. I wish it were yesterday, five of us sitting in a rickety transport shuttle. Then we could talk, figure this out. Instead, we're sandwiched between two sets of enemies like the unwanted third colour on a chessboard.

I wonder if this'llbe in some history book, in the future. It's a weird thing to think about when Earth, Mars, the rest of humanity feel so endlessly far away. Ships, tossed on open ocean, no shore in sight.

"Illumination could save us," my mother says, from the dark, wavy sea.

"It would destroy us," Maritime replies, a proud, weary lighthouse.

"When you look at the world, what do you see?" my mother asks.

"A rhetorical question with a pointless answer."

"A dead end. A dying planet. The Mesh, arcologies, nanotech, terraforming – all ways of sidestepping the problem without enacting true change. Anyone unfortunate enough to be born in the last two decades has never seen an unpolluted sky. Can never swim in an ocean without radiation blockers. Won't ever meet a kangaroo or koala outside a zoo. We struggle to survive because technology supports our ignorance; because we saw this downfall and never really tried to prevent it. It was always 'later', and now, it's too late." Her voice is ash, and I feel it inside myself – guilt for something I wasn't responsible for.

Intellectually, I know she's right.

I have a good life. A lot of people don't.

At school, they try and teach us about collapsing ecosystems, and spiralling social welfare, and why we weren't ready for it. They try and tell us we can still make it better. It's like they're trying to teach us optimism, which is weird, but... I like it. I'm more optimistic about _that_ than most of the other stuff in my life. Maybe that's wrong.

"An umurangi generation," Maritime murmurs.

"What?"

"Come on, Jira. We've mentioned this before, back on Mars, when we were teaching each other languages. You were quite good at Maori. Better than my Japanese." She frees her head of the memory. "Umurangi means 'red sky' – a red sky generation. The idea that someday, there'll be a last generation, who can only sit back and watch it end."

No recognition in my mother's eyes. "The skies are dead, not red, but you're describing these students. Perhaps us, too. And instead of confronting it, or acting, we seal ourselves away in virtual worlds, or sign rights away to AI-governed corporations. Medbots mean most people don't _die_ very easily, but statistically..." Her eyes flick towards the ceiling, then back. "Did you know that 40% of people don't work anymore? They just waste away, because they can, contributing nothing. Of those who _do_ contribute, their lives are ensnared by webs of radical social groups and unregulated private interests and secessionist governments and nothing gets _done_. Our only choices are conflict, or ignorance – never _progress._ And species that stagnate tend not to stick around."

"I've heard this sermon before," Maritime says. "From you, actually."

"And?"

"I don't entirely disagree. You can interpret the data to support that story. But equally, what _we_ did isn't the catch-all solution you seem to believe it is. Illumination won't instantaneously fix those problems." She smiles, or perhaps not. "It's simply another sideways step."

"Then it's biggest humanity has ever taken. A step into other _universes_." If we were in proper gravity, I imagine she'd take her own step forward; instead, her fist clenches slightly. "Overpopulation? Resource shortages? Sickness? Illumination is, potentially, a new existence, a new _age_. A way to fix problems, and injustices, and worries. An extraordinary expansion of our capabilities as a species. _That_ ' _s_ the possibility. That's what you believed in."

"So many possibilities, but no guarantees." She shakes her head. "I didn't _believe_ in Illumination. Like many others, I thought it was simply worth investigating. You're becoming an evangelist. A fanatic. I'm surprised to hear you—"

"We _need_ this," my mother hisses. "A world balanced on a knife-edge, and you only see the knife."

"And _you_ ignore it. Given what I've seen today – what I've experienced – what we've _done_ – I have no faith at all in how this will be handled. I _shouldn't_. Neither should you."

"That risk is manageable. Hundreds of people _agreed_ on that."

"I don't."

"And why does your opinion override theirs?"

"Because I'm still holding this gun." It's a statement of fact, not meant to sound imposing. It does, though. Maritime narrows her eyes. "The windows themselves are naturally unstable, yes, and there were models that suggested false vacuum decays, strangelet conversions, other apocalyptic scenarios with exceedingly low probabilities. Still, I'm most concerned about Illumination itself."

"You shouldn't be," my mother says. "Not without good reason."

"I saw people rip each other apart, Jira. An entire station, almost erased. I saw what one of those spectres can do. Can you predict what would happen if they were set loose on Earth? Is that not good enough? There are billionsof them – _trillions_ – and the majority seem to not like us very much. Fair enough, I'm generalising, but I'll certainly call them monsters. Monsters we might not understand completely, but monsters nonetheless."

"Angels," Alex whispers. I'm not sure what she means.

"It's okay to view a lion at a zoo, if it's managed safely. It's okay to observe lions in the wild, if it's managed safely," mother says. "We've prepared protection methods – city-scale resonance fields, down to wearable devices. Do you not realise how reactionary you're being?"

"Ah, I noticed you'd built a new lab." Maritime snorts. "Jira, if you had a working 'wearable device', you'd be wearing it."

"Am I not?"

"It's not that I don't trust you, specifically – I also don't trust everyone else."

"Then you should've stayed. Trusted _yourself_." My mother sounds like she's on a cliff-edge, footsteps weaving near the precipice. "You left. Now you return, so eager to judge us and disrupt what – up until now – was progressing perfectly reasonably. Those of us who persisted understand there are dangers, as well as benefits. Both should be considered."

"As it stands, those benefits don't exist, and rushing headlong trying to make them concrete means no genuine comprehension of the process or its consequences."

"What if humanity needs those consequences? This – _Illumination_ – would give people comfort. It would create hope. It would give us focus as a society. People speculate about how things would change if we encountered an intelligent alien species, but that _pales_ in comparison. Immediately, the priorities of every single human are defined by extraordinary unity. Every single human, alive, or dead, is _together_. Don't you realise how utterly beautiful that is?"

"Part of me wishes I could be swept up in your optimism." Maritime sighs, running a simulation in her head, and doesn't like the results. (I've never thought of my mother as an optimistic person... but she is, I suppose, in her own way.) "Many people won't take it as you expect. They won't see it like you do. If we continue to exist after death, what does that mean for _life_?"

"Religion has championed life after death for millennia. It's hardly a new concept."

"Scientific proof is altogether different than faith."

"And our existence is somehow invalidated by that?" my mother asks.

"My point, Jira, is that intentions don't always translate into reality. Concepts are malleable. Humanity might not take it... well. If life loses some of its meaning, people start leaving consequences by the wayside, _especially_ if it's decided that instead of an abstract notion of paradise, what's waiting for us after a hundred years on Earth is pain, hatred, and... light." Uncertainty flashes across her face. "It could as easily tear the world in half."

"Life _already_ means too little."

"You say that, but what about... stars? The future? What about looking _up_?"

"The stars are too far away – and the end of the world too close." As if it's a beautiful thought, my mother smiles softly. "Humanity can adapt, to stimuli like this; no, we _need_ such a driving force. Not climate change, or food shortages, which can be improperly ignored, but an immediate, _intuitive_ kick. With Illumination, we could change our entire species. Eliminate death. Eliminate suffering. Why not view this as part of our evolution?"

"You could say the same about the grey plague. Challenge is necessary for change, yes, but an invasion of ghosts is not the solution I prefer." Her teeth grind.

"We could help them," my mother insists.

"Help who?"

"These 'ghosts'."

"Do they want to be helped?" Maritime asks.

"Perhaps we could help each other. If they really are in pain, then—"

"Does weaponizing them also count as 'help'?"

"I'm sorry. What?"

"That's partly why this project is still secret, isn't it? To—"

"Perhaps someone, long ago, gave _brief_ thought to that kind of application but it's not why we're here. It's secret because we're aware this has to be tightly managed." She turns over the key, faster and faster. "What gives you the right to decide what happens? To represent humanity? Why do you get to destroy all we've worked for and act as if you're doing us a favour?"

"Because you're too far gone to make that decision." Maritime folds her arms. "I don't desire that responsibility – the opposite, actually. But I understand enough to _need_ to be here."

"Not to interrupt," Pendant says, "but the, um, the scientific value of this installation is extremely high. And, um, I don't think we're doing anything _morally_ wrong here? It's not like we're doing a bunch of illegal gene therapy, or, you know, massacring seahorses. We're investigating something of scientific value! Maybe the _most_ scientific value – not to, as it were, toot my own horn. And in the name of progress, or curiosity, I think it's unwise to simply _destroy_ this over fear of—"

"I've been on the other side of people like you," Khorin says. "Always justifications. Never responsibility."

"Okay, well, I still don't really know who you are or who kicked your puppy but I'm _quite_ sure it has nothing to do with this." He smiles nervously. "So why don't we all sit down and have a cup of tea, hm?"

" _Your_ friends were killed by some of those things. Mine too. I don't understand why you're still on her side."

"My friends are dead because _you_ attacked the station and made _our_ safeguards fail!"

"You're going to make a mistake," Maritime says. "You'll make a mistake, and the window will shatter, and that's reason enough for me. For us. That tiny risk. Those terrible consequences." Her voice grows soft, but still possesses a strange presence. I wish she'd been my maths teacher; I'd have never fallen asleep in class. "You have no oversight. No responsibility. Monkeys playing with God. There are scenarios in which this work could conceivably continue, but this isn't one of them."

"But it would change everything," my mother replies softly. "We wanted to change everything. That's why we abandoned our careers to work on this. Why chase stars when we can new realities?"

"And for that, you'd experiment on children? Lie to them? Tether them to—"

"We'd never," Pendant says. "These are tests. _Tests_."

"Shut up. You might be _marginally_ more pleasant to talk to, but you're also too far gone. Everyone on this station was _too far gone_." She grits her teeth. "Only ghosts left."

Back and forth. Swings and roundabouts.

My mother starts to reply, then closes her mouth, and she's... sad, but resolved. Single-minded. Again, like I'm back in time and I can forget the bad dream that screamed as I ran from her. Marko watches Maritime, like a statue himself, while Izzy sits, knees against her chest. She whispers something to Alex, lost, tense. Despite myself, I scoot a little closer to them.

"Destroying this," my mother says, "won't have the effect you want. There are backups of our data, and the gate can be rebuilt. This knowledge is in people's heads. Some will slip through your fingers."

"Although it takes effort to reorganise. Money to rebuild. Without Starfish, the work slows. Time is necessary, to find a better path."

"It would, of course, be a blow," she concedes. "Though it may not be delayed as much as you'd think."

Maritime squints suspiciously, the rest of her steady as granite. "A separate site? Europa? Mimas? You'd never have the resources."

"I wouldn't know." My mother, calm on the surface, but there's hidden rage, bubbling underneath, the kind that threatens to turn into bitterness. "So much for good intentions, Maritime. You—"

"Enough. _Enough_." Maritime turns to the other hijackers. "Set the charges. We're done. I want us gone within an hour."

That, it seems, is that.

I wonder if there's anything we can do; I don't think so. That that would require picking a side. It feels like there's a timer, counting down, and I'm barrelling towards something while I don't know what it is. No dramatic lightning-flashes; no climactic swordfights atop a rain-pelted cliff. Only words, said or unsaid, in this dark, echoing chamber. So many answers. So many questions. Across the room, a couple of consoles turn on, lights blinking, wasting time.

Why did Maritime even bother to explain? Why'd she bring us here?

To destroy Illumination. To see it, with her own eyes. To say goodbye to an old friend.

"Well," Alex grumbles. "That was a bloody useless negotiation."

"They tried at least," Marko replies.

Izzy hisses at him. "Shut the fuck up, Marko."

Maritime walks away, as my mother watches.

Khorin and another pair of guards keep us under supervision while others disperse across the chamber. Ominous mining charges are placed on walls, pillars, ceilings. Maritime disappears inside the central sphere to personally oversee the demolition of her nemesis. One of the damaged battlebots wobbles for a second, then recovers, gliding ever-so-slowly sideways. Khorin tracks it with hawkish intensity.

I sit.

Quietly.

Wishing someone would untie me.

Focusing on that simple desire, rather than any more complicated feelings. _We'll get out of this._ You'll _get out of this._ Say what you will about running from hijackers and monsters, but at least it provides _some_ form of agency.

"Why are _you_ here?" my mother asks.

To Khorin.

"You were curious, weren't you?" she continues. "You wanted to see it. The idea that you've been dragged across the solar system to silence."

"I was not dragged," he replies.

"Then what would you call it?" she asks.

He stares at her. "Retribution."

"For what?"

He shakes his head.

"Did something happen to you?" my mother asks. "Did _we_ do something? I'd like to know why you listen to her." Maritime's absence rings out like its own kind of bell and strangely, I'm almost more nervous with her gone.

"There are many victims," Khorin says. "Of people like you."

"Ah. So, you view yourself as one of these victims."

"If you had empathy, you'd understand."

"Empathy?" Alex snorts. "Not after the shit you did to us."

I wish she wouldn't antagonise people.

"Yeah," Izzy says. "You were gonna fricking _murder_ us. Alex got _shot._ We thought you—"

"There were... mistakes," Khorin grunts.

"It's more than a _mistake_."

"Which group do you belong to?" my mother asks. "Biofree? Orchid? Majestic-12?

"Do you realise the mess you're in?" he says, turning to us. "You weren't brought here for fun. You were brought here because you're _useful_. You're nothing more than experimental material." He bares his teeth, a humourless smile. "I know what that feels like. You shouldn't be on her side."

"I'd rather not be on any sides, thanks," Alex retorts. "So, why don't you let us go."

One pair of guards is still messing with the consoles, in the control room to our backs. I crane my neck round; there are semi-circular banks of seats and equipment, most dark, some lit by dim holo-projector standby patterns.

"I need to see what they're doing," my mother says, pulling herself towards them.

"Don't move," Khorin growls.

"I won't interfere, I assure you. I just want to check for myself."

"I'll count to three," he says. "You need to stop by three."

My mother doesn't hear him.

"One."

Or doesn't care.

"Two."

Khorin cares.

"Three." He turns around, grabs Marko, and puts a gun to his head.

"What are you _doing_!" Alex shouts.

My world freezes.

I should do something, but I don't know what.

My heart pounds in my chest.

Marko is limp.

Quiet.

A human doll.

Khorin holds the gun with murderous intensity.

"There's no need for that," my mother says.

"Your fault," Khorin replies.

She doesn't seem overly concerned, about to sit before a bank of switches. "Would you like to see it?" she asks. "Illumination?"

" _No_ ," he hisses.

"What does it matter? If you're destroying it anyway..." Her voice is lilting, songlike. "I know you're curious. I know what they did to you."

"I'll shoot him," Khorin says. "Then you. I don't want to. But I _promise_ you..."

His hands shake slightly.

Quick breaths.

"Let's, let's pause for a second," Izzy says, palms raised. "We're all friends here. On the same side. Right? One big misunderstanding, OK, fine, we can clear this up and then go home—"

" _Quiet_."

Marko just... hangs there, eyes closed. Waiting for the world to do what it must.

I can see my mother thinking, weighing risks in her head. Not sure what her plan is. Not sure if she cares about us, anymore. She pretends to, sort of, but more and more I feel like it's a reflection of whatever I want to see.

"Stop it! Everyone!" Alex says, fists clenched, half-a-sob escaping before she bites it off. "This is _stupid_. Why can't this work out? Let him go! Let _us_ go! We never wanted to be part of this!"

" _Quiet_!" His eyes are white.

"I am going to show you the gate," my mother says. "You'll see how beautiful it is. And then, we can—"

She touches the control panel.

Khorin chucks Marko aside, dives through the air, and his hand latches onto the back of my suit and he yanks me up and I hang there, in zero gravity, with hot breath and a cold muzzle against the back of my skull.

"Not another millimetre," Khorin says. "Don't make me say it again."

My mother stops.

I hang there.

Time, moving so slowly, is now in freefall.

"Please," Alex says. "Don't. Don't hurt him." Something compels me to look at her, and out of the corner of my eye, she's...lost. Vacant. I sort of feel vacant too, like I've been picked up and dragged away so fast that my guts were left behind. I can't focus. My vision's blurry. A thousand different thoughts, actions, futures split and diverge with every split-second heartbeat. So many possibilities. Nothing I can do. My body prickles. Khorin's shivering too, and I can feel the sweat on his forearm.

Marko kneels beside me, as lifeless as before.

"Okay," my mother says. "I'll wait."

"How interesting," Khorin says. "The witch does have a weakness. Now give me your key."

"What key?"

"Don't play games." He points at the transparent polymer strip she's holding. Then something changes: a layer of joy, pasted over fear like too-sweet icing over too-dry cake. "Actually, what if we do play a game? Let's play _favourites._ Seems I've already found yours."

"We all have things we'd rather not give up," my mother says coolly.

" _Right._ Yes! Unfortunately, I've already given up a lot today."

"That has nothing to do with us," Izzy says.

"Wrong!" He whips around, a shark picking up blood in the water, or... a neglected animal going for a slab of the alpha's meat. A smile, full of glinting canines and blackened lips, and I feel control slipping away, the future slipping away. "What about you, Marko?" Khorin asks. "We're friends, aren't we?"

Marko flinches.

"You betrayed them – led your friends right to us. Interesting decision."

"Sure," Marko mutters.

"What don't you want to give up?"

No reply.

"Bet you've got a favourite, though." He points to Alex, with the gun. "Is it her?" Then Izzy. "Or her?" Back to me, elbow around my neck. "Or perhaps our mutual friend here, who's definitely shitting his pants 'round now. Answer me. I'd like to know."

"Stop," my mother says warningly.

"I'd like to know." End of the leash.

Marko looks up, meeting Khorin's gaze. "I'm not playing this game."

"I don't think you understand," he growls. "Choose."

"What are you hoping to get out of this?"

"Retribution."

"I didn't do anything to your friends.

"Some of them are dead."

"And you think threatening a bunch of kids is going to bring them back?" He tilts his head towards my mother, then stares back evenly. "I'd ask her, if that's what you want."

"That _isn't_ what I want. _Choose_."

Khorin's grip shivers, trying to hold in the violence. I wonder why the other soldiers aren't stepping in. Why Maritime had to leave.

"It _is_ our mutual friend, isn't it," Khorin says. "I can tell."

"You're wrong."

"Am I? Am I _really_?" He pats my head and I try not to shrink away. Air pinches in my throat. I wonder if I should try and make a break for it. Fight back, somehow. Avoid dying in such a shitty, unfair, stupid way. I've imagined being the hero in this kind of situation in countless daydreams.

The world won't let me.

My body won't let me.

"It doesn't matter," Marko says. "Do what you want."

"You should maybe reconsider that."

Marko kneels.

An imprint in the snow.

"Then tell him," Khorin says, and I can hear the pleasure in his voice. "Tell him, if you really think so, that it'll be okay."

The mask doesn't waver.

But his eyes move, ever so slightly.

Until they meet mine.

"Finn," he says. "It's going to be okay."

My heart tries to leap, but not far enough.

I want to be alone. I want to be alone, in a room, with him. Far from here, where I could tell him everything, and tell him that yes, everything will be okay, and I'm sorry, and I wish I could have time to express every stupid thought I've had over the past three years and how I don't want those thoughts to be cut short in the next thirty to sixty seconds. I don't ever want them to stop. Not yet.

I want to be able to figure out if this is what I want.

To feel what it would be like to be friends.

To at least have that chance.

In his gaze – the way it lingers – there's the pull of a dark, calm sea.

And in his eyes... nothing.

There's nothing.

The sting of tears, which I blink away, and—

_BANG!_

Gun goes off.


	20. Finn

A huge blast of light on the left side of my head, and I wonder if it’s the last thing I’ll see before I die, if the heat blasting my face will consume the last thought I have, burning up in a meaningless cloud of particles.

But the bolt continues past me, smacking in the console that my mother is sitting at.

Khorin shoves me to the ground.

My ears are ringing.

“What did you _do_?” Alex screams.

Maritime’s voice cuts across the chamber. “Stop this! Now!”

I look up. My mother is frozen, one hand reached towards me.

A final reflex. Her hand drops.

“Khorin – get out,” Maritime says. “ _Get out_.” She vibrates with suppressed fury. “You’ve done enough to jeopardise this mission. This was not supposed to be HARD!”

He curses, then moves away from me.

Lowers his rifle.

I watch until he’s gone, a cloud of dispersed shadow.

Should I stand?

I’d rather lie down, to be honest.

“Are you okay?” Izzy asks.

“Pr— probably,” I say.

“Holy shit, Finn,” Alex says. “God, I thought they’d…” We look at each other, since with our hands still tied there’s not much else to do, though she wants, so badly, to help. I _wish_ she could help. “I’m sorry. I should’ve tried something. I’m sorry.” A wall of concerned faces, and I’m somehow the least shocked of everyone. Or the most? Can’t say I know how shock works – as in, medically. I guess I’m figuring that out right now.

 _< Ferdinand>_ I whisper. _< Where’d you go?>_

“What happened to us?” Maritime asks, from very far away.

“We saw the light,” my mother murmurs. “Or the light saw us.”

“And you were blinded by it?”

“I was going to say it was so beautiful that we couldn’t look away.” She grimaces, suddenly tired. Suddenly _old_. “If it wasn’t clear enough, Maritime, you’re siding with the fanatics.”

“I apologise. For losing control of the situation.”

“They nearly killed my s—” She stops. “He was going to kill him, Maritime. You were going to let him.”

“He wasn’t. I wasn’t.” She clasps her hands, holding onto something only she can see. “ _Blinded_ by it! All you had to do was _sit there._ ”

“I was trying to stop them from erasing our work.”

“It’s not _our_ work.”

“Then why be so consumed by guilt? Because you realise, deep down, that this righteousness is misguided? Because of the lives lost in the past twelve hours?”

“I have done my _ut_ most to do the right thing! To be kind, and safe, even if it was much, much harder!” Almost a snarl. “It would’ve worked if it wasn’t for your interference!”

“Hey,” Alex says. “Hey! I’ve got something to bloody add and I’d appreciate it if you bloody _listened!_ I’m tired of this fucking _bull_ shit! Fuck!”

The entire room swivels towards her, and I’m not usually one for wanton swearing but _sometimes_ I suppose it’s necessary for effect.

“Jesus _Christ!_ ” she says. “Okay, thank you. Now, if you could do me a solid with one straight answer – one! – I’d love to know why we found a recording of ourselves, from three years ago, that _none_ of us remember. Because I _was_ gonna ask before we almost died – again! – by getting mixed up in something that _clearly_ isn’t our _fucking_ problem.”

“Yeah!” Izzy adds, for moral support.

“There were videos of us doing a test, or something. An experiment. Related to this… Illumination crap. You were there too,” she tells Marko. “Talking about your brother.”

He goes pale. Pale-r. “When was this?”

“In the data archives, while you were too busy being an arsehole.”

My mother purses her lips. “You discovered that?”

“I guess so.” Alex folds her arms, then unfolds them. The faint glow from the sphere seems to strengthen, turning briefly blue as it washes over us. Ferdinand slinks up to me, tucking his thick, scaly neck beneath my elbow, and I scratch the folded skin under his jaw. I’m both focusing on it, and not; an imaginary warmth that makes me think of lying on my bed on Earth, unable to sleep.

Long, cold nights.

Just like this has been a very long day.

“You did take part in an experiment like this. Once before,” my mother says.

“We… did?” Marko asks.

“Yes. It wasn’t intended to turn out the way it did, but – there were reasons. Good reasons.”

“Why don’t we remember it?” Izzy asks.

“Because Illumination… that’s what it does, sometimes. The things inside, they overwrite… I’m sorry. Give me a moment.” She shudders, a whole-body twitch – as if the light from the sphere both disgusts and attracts her, a kind of vampire sunflower. “Memory. It affects memory. We still don’t know how. Or why. But it’s one of the… dangers.”

“One,” Maritime agrees.

Alex squints suspiciously. “There were reasons, you said, for this other experiment. What the hell were they? Why _us? Why are we here?_ Again?”

The core turns red; my mother’s face rusts, awash with flecks of… otherness. Her head tilts, like there’s water stuck in her ear and she can’t dislodge it. I get to my feet (non-trivial, with the restraints still binding my ankles) I glance over my shoulder – at the suspended sphere, the guards in the distance – then back. “Mum?”

“It was like this, but… earlier. Worse. We needed you, because of your father— I wanted you to… no. It wasn’t my fault.” Her voice is pleading, then angry. “I wanted you to see him, and they wanted a way to… to get inside…”

“Mum? Are you okay?”

I don’t know what’s happening to her.

Just talking about it seems traumatic, even though she was so confident before.

It’s like she’s turned into me.

“It had to be you, Finn,” she says, her eyes locking with mine. “You’re connected… to that place, still so… malleable. We could test Illumination, by using… you. Them. It won’t hurt you. I was _never_ mean to hurt you.”

“Malleable,” Marko says, rolling the word around in his mouth.

“She’s manipulating you,” Maritime warns.

“Ha! You think I’m _manipulating_ them?” Her eyes flash. “ _You’re_ the one who—”

“Your mother is a liar.” I find myself shifting under Maritime’s gaze. “How many charges to go?” she calls out.

“He’s dead,” Alex says, with strange certainty. “My dad – my _biological_ dad – is dead. Right? Marko’s brother is dead. Izzy’s grandparents are dead. That’s why we’re here. Well, it’s probably not the only reason, but it’s one of them. It makes us _special_. Because Illumination’s dead, too.” She smiles. “And you’re using us. You’re _using us_ because this whole thing is fucked up and d’you know how I know that? It’s because _you wouldn’t even tell us why._ And you failed once, and you covered it up, and now you’re trying AGAIN?!”

Suddenly, the battlebots move.

They jet downwards, taking cover behind desks, pillars, out of sight.

The remaining hijackers raise their guns as Maritime raises her hand. “Please don’t, Jira. Please.”

My mother floats above the console Khorin shot, surrounded by smoke. “It’s not my fault. I simply need to… see. I need to. Before this ends. You can leave me here, and I’ll destroy it. I promise you. But… I can’t _leave_ , Maritime.”

“If those bots do _anything_ else – anything – take them down,” Maritime mutters, to the nearest set of guards. “Her, too.”

With the way the light shifts around us, the echoing bell, it feels like the arboretum when I touched the monster’s glow. I’m not sure if the others have noticed; maybe it’s all in my head. Ships tossed about by storm-crested waves, barely staying afloat. Maritime still holds herself like a figurehead with half a ship left standing.

World on a knife-edge, finally about to fall.

Izzy shoves herself sideways, making for a row of seats.

“Hey! Don’t move!” a guard shouts.

“Hey, friendo! I just don’t wanna get _shot_ , alright?”

We are in the open, which isn’t great once triggers _do_ get pulled, so I shuffle after her with my geckoboots, and with Khorin gone, nobody is too intent on stopping us. We crouch between the rows of benches at the front of the observation gallery.

“It’s _your_ fault we’re stuck here!” Izzy hisses, at Marko. “We could’ve been out by now!”

“I wanted us to survive,” he says.

“Well I was _this_ close to telling that Khorin idiot that _you’re_ the one who killed his buddies.” She glares at him. “Just so I could watch him smash the shit out of you.”

“Do what you want.” He shrugs. “I don’t need you to understand, but’s better if we’re on the winning side.”

“I don’t think there is one,” Alex says.

“The safer side, then. The side where we get to go home. Although yes, I’ll admit this went sideways. A bit.” He glances at me. Cracks his fingers, _pop-pop-pop._ “Sorry.”

He _cracks his fingers_.

With two free hands.

He does – also – have two free feet.

Alex gasps. “What bloody Houdini crap is this?”

“You’re lucky these suits have a ton of pockets.” He takes out his laser pocketknife, dangles it from one hand.

“You’ve had that this _whole time_?”

“Yup.”

“Then _why didn’t you cut us free earlier—_ ”

“It would’ve been counterproductive.”

“—or use it to slice through Pendant’s door—”

“I wanted to save the battery.” He raises his palm when he sees her look. “ _Also_ , this isn’t exactly intended for cutting through walls. But handcuffs? It can _do_ handcuffs.” He activates the blade and it _buzzes_ , blending with scarlet glow of Illumination. “Hold still,” he mutters.

I feel its warmth, close to my wrists. After a few seconds of electromagnetism versus plastic, the plastic forfeits and I can rip my hands free. It feels _good_ , and so do my ankles, and I stretch them out, roll them around, and relish in the fact that I’m technically no longer in pain.

“No need to thank me,” he adds, starting on Izzy.

“I’m still gonna haunt you to _heck_ if we die here.”

I wonder if Marko’s right – if we _are_ safer, with Maritime. It’s a reasonable point of view, current circumstances notwithstanding. Do we try and change this? _Can_ we change this? Or do we simply wait until it boils over, or burns itself out, only to be consumed by scalding steam? Could I convince my mum to… what? I barely talk to her about the TV shows I like (and if I do, she struggles to care). Could I talk to Maritime? Nah, she’d never listen. We _could_ run, maybe, but I’m not sure if that would improve things. It hasn’t really, so far.

One _reason_ my mum rubbishes the stuff I watch is that she thinks more conflicts should be resolved by talking. No shootouts, car-chases, gratuitous swordfights – more _science,_ more _debate_. I don’t disagree, entirely, but debates aren’t foolproof either and we’re Exhibit A. (Gratuitous swordfights, though? They’ll _always_ fix a problem. Maybe not the right problem, but they’ll fix… something.) The crucial element is that we still need a way off this station, whether that’s a ship or an unidentified ‘other’. Therefore, we need to know where a ship is, and therefore, we need friends, and considering the options, that’s probably got to be one of the factions in this room and preferably not the spectres. I’d rather not let that genie even _more_ out of its bottle.

It all comes down to us. Whether we can help each other. Whether we can stay okay, or get _back_ to ‘okay’. Memories, connections… it’s a tricky thing, and even trickier is one more secret, _and while I’m pondering whether to ruin things further, I’m still not_ _doing._

Maritime said my mother was lying.

About what, specifically?

“I’m sorry,” my mother says.

“So am I,” Maritime replies.

“No. Finn. I’m…”

I don’t think I’m going to like what she says.

Her eyes gleam with devastation.

She ducks behind the console, and a battlebot jerks up and jets out of the broken control room window – a silvery blur over our heads, faster than I can follow. Another follows. The third starts shooting, great ionic arcs that don’t immediately hit us but force the whole room into cover.

“Stop them!” Maritime shouts. “She’s going for the activator!”

In the time it takes to say those words, there are electric screams as the closest battlebot is taken down, a shadowy, wildly spinning shape, scorched by strobe-like gunfire. My mother’s bent over, typing furiously, conducting at orchestra in triple-time. She flips up a plastic cover, takes hold of a lever. Maritime’s about to fly over and drag her away herself when—

_Tick (ticktickticktick)…_

_Tick (ticktickticktick)…_

_Tick (ticktickticktick)…_

It sounds like we’re _inside a_ grandfather clock.

“What did you DO?” Maritime asks.

“A final story,” my mother says. “Before the candle’s snuffed out.”

“Turn it off.”

“You, of all people, should know that’s not possible.”

In the middle of the room, the spherical core starts to spin – slow at first, speeding up. Its black, oily surface ripples under ever-changing light, like caustic reflections at the bottom of a pool. In contrast, the equatorial band where the clumps of cables attach is perfectly stationary, thanks to an enormous counter-rotating mechanism that whirrs and whines. There are no visible gears or belts or motors – the spin’s probably driven by a maglev system, if not something more exotic.

“We should _leave_ ,” Alex whispers. “Right? This is bad. Right?”

“Might not be an option,” Marko replies.

“We can _make_ it an option!”

The exit’s on the far side of the chamber, and probably locked. The sphere turns, faster and faster, impossibly well-balanced, seeming almost to bulge at the equator as if not quite solid. It feels too massive to be moving that quickly, a gradual, mechanical _shriek_ building in my ears, hair tingling with static as—

 _Tick.._.

—the sphere reaches critical speed—

_Tick..._

—and light bursts forth.

_Tock!_

It feels like there’ll never be another night-time. The walls, the air, the insides of my eyeballs turn white, the same too-present glow you see in MeshSims before a nuclear bomb turns everything to dust. The sphere sparkles, the light _solid_ , a soupy haze I can almost touch. The cables jump and hitch as if overflowing with energy. The ticking, the whine, the distant bell – it’s a battlement of sound as physical as my own body.

Behind the light, there are shapes: inkblots, shades, laced together like coronal plumes on the surface of the sun.

The light blinks.

< _Containment error > __says the Mesh._

_Darkness. Half a second. Just enough to make me think I’ve gone blind._

_< Containment recovered. Temporary breach.>_

The sun returns, now bruised by garish colour – yellow, purple, growing larger, more intense, as if arriving from a great distance. Breaking through the sphere, through the water, to another universe.

< _Anomalous signals detected. >_

Those words seem so _much_ an understatement.

Fractal expanses of fear and bad intentions slice across my vision, swimming into reality with joyous ambition. Figures dart past below us – human figures – friends, enemies, who knows – and the purplish light pauses, then adjusts in scale, dustcloud to stormcloud, surrounding the figures with its beautiful radiance, cradling them, like babies, before turning solid and _slamming_ inwards, compressing bones and skin until it forces itself through the pores in their suits and into their screaming mouths and a fierce violet glow erupts from where they used to be, sputtering like pockets of hydrogen.

Shapes scattering, running, fleeing.

I can feel the light, racing towards me.

What’s a self-preservation instinct supposed to do, at a time like this? I focus on the solid material under my boots, the sensation of breathing, not closing my eyes and not being _consumed_.

 _“_ _Finn! This way! Come on!”_

I follow someone – Alex, I think – through the shafts of radiance.

“ _The key!_ ” I hear Maritime shout. _“I have the other key!_ ”

She’s there, in the distance, a blurred shadow. Everything that isn’t light is shadow: the people, the benches, the consoles, the viewscreens, an interplay of bright and gloom in which bright is clearly winning. Yellow tendrils snatch at another hijacker, a hiss of acid and static, their suit jerking like a puppet on a string. Its beam sweeps above us, _through_ us, and I’m suddenly desperately envious, jealous, of… what? So much resentment it makes me want to _die_ , and I see Alex as I float, ahead of me, and I’m grabbing her and smashing her head into me knee so she’ll never speak to me again and I can take back my—

No, no no no.

Not my feeling.

Someone else’s.

Grand pillars of amber encircle us, an insubstantial throne room, full of rage, despair, abandonment. Waves of feeling ripple through me, accompanied by strange, shifting landscapes, impressions of half-forgotten dreams carved from twilight. Waves, on an ocean shore. The spray of blood against my cheeks – not my own, but this _person_ , this city, this _species_ I want to destroy – Alex, Marko, Izzy, Kei, mother, father, myself, life pooling out of cracks in their heads as I hold a red-slicked hammer.

I want this, more than anything.

I don’t.

Fear. Disgust. Hands around my neck. Mine around another. Blackness, in my head, the exact opposite of where we are now. An ouroboros of endless conflict, and pain, the only sensation amid an endless sea of… light.

Plasma bolts streak into the ceiling. Molten polymer drips onto my suit.

I look down, at my hand.

And I feel—

Presence.

I feel a ghost.

Dust.

 _Life_.

The barest outline of a human shape, an artist’s forgotten nightmare, yanking itself into brief existence with extraordinary effort. Its features blend, like dye in water, and its voice is deep and harsh and filled with longing.

 _“Help… us…”_ it says.

In the distance, screaming.

In the distance, monsters.

It’s only a matter of time before the light comes for me.

For everyone.

No darkness to hide in.

“How?” I reply.

And—

* * *

You.

Yes, you, reading this now.

The next time you have your nightmares – remember _me_.

* * *

—push myself away from the body. It bounces limply against the chamber wall, eyes vacant, cauterised wounds stitched across its stomach.

I freeze in shock.

There's something in my hand; a metal sheet. I drop it, try to move but there's an arm holding me back.

Marko.

"You good?" he asks.

"I... don't know."

I turn around.

"What happened?" I ask.

"Oh." He presses his lips together, then lets me go.

We're at the door.

The exit.

"It won't fucking open!" Alex shouts. "Izzy, can you get it unlocked?"

"Alex, I'm not a hecking wizard—"

"Screw that, we need a bloody exorcist! Shit!" She ducks as a purple glow briefly overwhelms us, snapping outwards from the sphere. "Marko! Knife!"

Gamely, he stabs it into the vault-like barrier, but there's _no_ chance it'll do more than generate a few sparks.

"Finn!" my mother calls out, at the edge of my hearing (well past the edge of anybody else's). It takes a while to find her. She's by the sphere, next to the equatorial band, where there's an airlock that leads... inside? Then, her voice is inside our heads. <Finn. Alex. We need to get inside the containment lock. Its shielding can keep us safe until this dissipates.> Her silhouette beckons.

<That's a nah from me!> Alex yells back. <Just let us out!>

<Trust me, I don't like this any more than you do. Personally, I'd prefer to be far away, but Illumination' s tachyon shields are for our protection in case this happens.>

<Didn't you let all this – this _shit_ out in the first place?!>

<There was an error. I promise you, I had no intention of—>

<No!> Alex grabs my arm. <Izzy, stop! IZZY!>

It's not me, but Izzy who cannonballs across the chamber towards my mother, head down, curled up, as if being a smaller target will somehow help her avoid being noticed when our entire existence is lit up like the seventh circle of Hell.

Marko shrugs. "We've come this far."

" _Dammit_ ," Alex hisses. "We're gonna bloody die." Hers zero-g hair forms an incandescent halo, colours cascading up and down her suit. "It seems counter-bloody-intuitiveto run _towards_ the ghost vagina. Y'know? Y'KNOW?"

I nod. "Yeah. But..."

"No other options?" she asks.

"Should probably stick together."

"Finn! Alex!" my mother calls out. Marko's already long gone.

"Alright." She swallows. "C'mon."

A hand grabs her leg.

The dead (?) body from before. Purplish light spills from its gaping mouth, from the honeycombed wounds in its stomach. Alex screams. I want to. The thing drags her down and she tries to kick it off, dead, not dead, tendrils of light entwining her but slipping as if they can't get a grip. Its fingers, though, won't let go. I activate my suit thrusters and cannon into both of them, feet first, a jumble of limbs as my momentum propels us towards the distant floor of the chamber. I'm beginning to think this was a bad idea as we keep accelerating but hey, too late now and I hope Alex understands what I'm trying to do, still trying to pull away as—

_Crunch!_

The body hits first, then we do, a little softer, legs braced, and the bone-jarring impact throws us apart. It spirals away, legs flailing, shrieking brokenly. Alex activates her own thrusters, slams to a stop.

"What the _hell_ ," Alex breathes. She glances at me. "Thanks."

As we pass the control room, I notice another body. I'm about to give it a wide berth when I realise it's Maritime.

She doesn't _look_ dead.

Unconscious?

Clasping something in her hands.

Before self-doubt interrupts, I fly to her, and extremely quickly but as delicately I can manage – like a 3AM freezer ice-cream heist – I snatch the object she's holding and wiggle it free. It's small, and I slip it into my suit.

Slowly, her eyes open.

She blinks uncertainly.

I race after Alex, heart in mouth.

Up close, the non-rotating section of the core has a transparent outer surface – a thick, slightly foggy material barrier, which itself appears to contain a glinting, glowing sea, or... sky? It's like there's a planetarium light show being projected onto it. My unqualified guess is that this wall of energy is the containment shield, or at least the visible part, and there's a rectangular window in it through which the others have already passed. Tree-trunk cables vibrate on either side. I fly inside before any ghosts can catch up.

My mother seals the shield behind me, then steps away from the controls. "As long as we're on this side, we'll be safe. The barrier is strictly intended to prevent escape, but it's equally as useful for keeping out unwanted guests."

"It failed once, didn't it?" Marko says. "Some of your 'guests' _did_ escape just now."

"And what's with the zombies?" Alex asks. "I thought this was an evil spirit problem or whatever, but now there's effing light zombies?!"

"They aren't... _zombies_ ," my mother says, distastefully.

"Then _what_. _Are. They._ "

"We're unsure, precisely, how the process occurs."

"Of _course_ you are."

"They get possessed, don't they," Izzy says. "I bet they're possessed."

I turn away, past the shield, gazing at the maelstrom outside. It is slightly quieter in here, mostly due to the lack of screaming. My reflection stares back at me – backlit, overlapping fragments of tired eyes and a grimy, bloody face and a stupid noise. _Stupid nose_. I wipe snot away with the back of my glove, close my eyes, stay very still. _Exhale_. I need to stay in control. Need to stay calm. Otherwise...

"Feels that way, doesn't it," Marko says, next to me.

His eyes meet mine in the glass.

It's like... we're watching the end of the world. The end of everything.

"Sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You didn't," I reply, too fast.

"Good. What do you think's going to happen?"

"To the station? Or to... us? Or to everyone?"

"Us." He smiles slightly.

I wish there were more to say than 'I don't know.'

"Or what do you _want_ to happen to us," he adds.

Well, crap.

That's a very different question.

"I want us to go home," I say. "And, um... move on. I want this to end. To go back to normal. So nobody else gets hurt."

"Fair." He nods. "How long d'you think we'll be stuck inside here? Actually, don't answer that."

My heart goes _ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump_ , the hairs on my forearms prickling inside my suit, and in the end, I can't believe I have such a stupid crush. It's not _smart._

Can't believe it. Can't do much about it. Can't help that his voice makes me feel that way. Can't help how his face looks sharp, and casual, and proud, such a contrast to mine. Can't help wishing that we could... talk. "What do you want to happen?" I ask, throat painfully dry.

"Ha. Me?" He shrugs. "I wanted to check that... well, I wanted to apologise, too. For the hostage part, back there."

"Wasn't your fault," I reply.

"Guess it wasn't. Still, though – I just..." He runs his teeth over his bottom lip, tilts his head. "Never mind."

"You can tell me—"

"I don't want to hurt you either, is all." His expression settles, on something approaching neutrality. "I'd rather not be a... problem. If you understand what I'm trying to say. You know what's strange, though? I feel like I've known you for longer, and that... actually, I suppose I have known you for longer, if that stuff earlier was true. I just don't remember it." He shrugs again. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Me too. It feels like... I mean, there's no problem. It's fine."

"I don't want anybody to get hurt."

"Right."

I wonder if we're both saying the same thing.

Words swirl around in my mouth.

_I like you._

_I hate you._

So much so, that I was always afraid.

That I decided getting better was impossible.

Better to grow beyond, instead. Isn't it?

"You're really nice, Marko," I say.

He looks surprised. "Thanks. You are too, Finn. Really."

He smiles briefly, and leaves, to join the others, and I could go too, but—

I stay, and watch, and think my thoughts.

It aches, how freaking _stupid_ I am.

Can't help it.

Stagnant water.

 _"Jira!"_ Maritime shouts.

I jump.

 _"You did this!"_ She floats, incandescent with rage, on the other side of the shield.

"I did," my mother says.

 _"Look at what happens! See what this does to people! I told you there was no way to control it, I told you, I TOLD YOU. Look!"_ She points to a body, its limbs shivering, neck snapped at a sickening angle... embraced by an oddly-comforting yellow glow that pulses, lifelike.

It's Pendant.

His glasses float beside him.

Along with a chunk of bloody meat that might be his tongue.

Everywhere, in the shifting colours, things I'd rather not see. Death. Nightmares. Barely registered, for the benefit of my sanity, like deliberately going cross-eyed with my mind.

 _"Where's the detonator?!"_ Maritime shouts. I don't know who she's addressing; can't see anyone else. Which doesn't change the fact that explosive charges are placed everywhere across the Illumination chamber, ready to vaporise the experiment, and us with it. _"Let them go, Jira,"_ _she urges_. _"Let them go. They don't have to die."_

"My son is safer with me."

" _He'd be safe_ _far away from here!"_

"Will you do it, then?" she says softly. "Become the monster?"

 _"Yes. If that's what it takes._ " She looks down. _"But please don't make me. Please, before they kill us ALL—"_

< _Incoming public channel! >_ Ferdinand announces. < _Accept connection?_ >

It's an external signal, from off-station – weird, but not totally unexpected. I'd expect others to have figured that something's gone wrong on Starfish. The Titan colony, maybe, or mining plants on Encedalus. It's perhaps more surprising it's taken this long.

<Accept> I say.

< _Hello! If anyone—hear me, we are—roaching Starfish—three hours. My name is Farah Aliy—task force— >_

 _My m_ other freezes.

" _Farah?_ " Maritime asks. It's the most shocked I've seen her.

_< Maritime!>_

" _Why are you..._ _how_ _are you here?_ _"_

_<_ _Could say—same about you. Are the crew safe? The students? Tell me, are—alive? >_

Maritime glances at us. " _For now. They're with me, and... Jira. The rest of the crew are already off-station._ "

_< Jira's there too?>_

" _Yes. She's here. There have been complications._ "

_< Then I'm begging you—then please—wait for me, and don't do what—planning. Please—so close. On my way. Jira, you need to stay away from—don't touch them. It's contaminated. Not secure.>_

" _You're breaking up_ _," Maritime says. "_ _I can't hear what_ —"

"You're too late, Farah," my mother interrupts. "I tried to stop her, but it's done. It's ruined. You should've been here."

< _Did_ — _explain? Did you tell them—happened? Do they know? >_

" _I explained,_ " Maritime says.

_< Alex? Finn? Kei? Marko? Izzy? If you can—me, don't listen—her. Don't believe her!"_

Alex frowns. "Um. Hello?"

< _Don't believe her!"_

"Who is this? Which 'her'?"

< _Both! They'll never admit— >_

" _I've told them the_ truth," Maritime retorts, " _for better or worse. Now they're a problem, but that can be dealt with later._ "

< _Then why—secret? Unless you realised—wasn't ready. Or realised it couldn't be proven. Is that it? I wish I'd gotten—sooner! >_

"Ignore her," my mother tells us. "This woman, she... hasn't been here. She doesn't understand what this is. She's _ungrateful_. I devote incredible effort towards fixing her moronic mistakes and in return she pretends we never existed. Then she comes crawling back? For what?"

It's like being gaslit from three directions at once, the voices on the radio and on the Mesh and in my ears merged into meaningless static, a party that's gone on far too late when I only want to fall asleep.

" _I'm glad you want to help, Farah,_ " Maritime replies. " _I'm glad to hear your voice. Truly. But it's too far gone. They've already escaped. You shouldn't come here anymore."_

_< I don't care! Just don't—anything else! We can still... the task force is on the—Io afterwards, in case of a second collapse. Three hours! Three—please, Jira. Please, Maritime. I want—things right. No more lies.>_

The MeshStream ends.

My mother punches the glass. "No," she mutters. "No. Not like this."

"Mum?" I ask. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, Finn," she says. "But Maritime? I'd leave, if I were you."

A reanimated body comes flying toward the shielding – a glowing blur, trailed by muffled screams – as if trying to burst through the containment field with dumb, pure force. As soon as it touches, it's vaporised, a burst of glittering greenish-blue that shotguns bits of melted spacesuit (and/or melted human) across the chamber. Maritime hisses, ducking away. Whiplashed energy arcs between cables before coalescing into chaotic, fractal snowflakes. The shield wobbles, then recovers.

There are other bodies, out there.

They start to move.

My mother falls to her knees.

" _Where's the detonator?"_ Maritime calls out, her desperation – her fear – increasingly evident. My own fear's building up, too, a Jenga tower of emotion. Telling myself to stay calm only goes so far, and yes, while this containment area is safer than whatever the hell's happening outside... it's not exactly a fun Maccas playground party, either.

Okay. Okay. Essentially, this place acts like a ring, or moat, separating the innermost Illumination chamber from the outside world. Behind me, through one final airlock, I can catch a glimpse of the experiment itself.

Which – unknowingly – we were brought here to see.

Which my mother's trying so hard to save.

Which Maritime believes might end us all.

The portal – for what else could it be? – is a shimmering, undulating mass of solid (liquid?) energy, an epileptic spectrum, hemmed in by a circular ring of matte black panels to which its ragged edges have attached themselves via searching, twitching roots. Suspended around it is a spinning, spherical support structure, five metres in radius, covered in mirrors, a hypnotic kaleidoscope that infinitely focuses and reflects and refracts the tear in reality at its heart.

It takes me a while to absorb it.

To figure it out.

But – I'm drawn towards it, too.

Maybe it's the quiet, that I can sense, inside that final space.

No factions. No terrorists. No zombies. No parents. Only... light. And for the fiftieth time, I wish we were alone. We could talk. Figure out our lives, and our feelings, and the god-damn future. I could explain, free from my mother. Free from Maritime. Free from Khorin. Free from _ghosts_. I don't think they'd understand, but... they might.

I glance down, at the detonator I stole from Maritime: black, angular, and curiously light.

Time. Always too much of it, or not enough.

"Time, huh?" Alex says, plucking the thought out of my head. Maybe I murmured it aloud. She floats beside me, staring at the portal too. "The weird glowy crap does _look_ cool, but I dunno if it's worth the trouble."

She's also hiding something in her hand: a clear, polymer bio-key. That, if I'm not mistaken, very recently belonged to my mother.

"D'you steal that?" Alex asks, out of the side of her mouth.

I nod.

"Me too," she says. "Because eff those guys."

We contemplate the portal.

Drawn to it.

"Marko," Alex whispers. "Izzy. Let's go."

"Where, exactly?" Marko asks. "I'm seeing _zero_ options."

"In there." She points at the shimmering tunnel.

"Okay. No? Are you suicidal?"

"I don't mean _into_ the gate! Just into the room, so we can work things out, away from..." She lowers her voice further. " _Her._ And _her_. And these other bastards. I need a few minutes and I dunno about you, but I feel like nobody here actually has control of this situation and I'm preeeetty sure we can make better decisions at this point. So, let's go. Lock the rest of 'em out."

Marko's eyes widen, in way that says 'no'.

Izzy's eyes widen, in way that says 'yes!'

"What about Maritime?" Marko asks. "She's still alive, somehow—"

"Dude, no!" Izzy whispers. "D'you _really_ think they'll just let us GO once this is over? After _everything_? I'm beginning to think telling us about this Illumination crap _wasn't_ a favour but a nice excuse to fridge us afterwards."

"Shhh!" Alex hisses.

She takes the key, touches it to the airlock, and it slides aside, and the portal is there.

Real.

Metres away.

In that precise moment, there's only one thing to do.

We dive into the innermost chamber, a panicked tumble of vacsuits, and before my mother knows what's happened, Alex seals the door behind us.


	21. Finn

Do you know what the strangest part is?

This doesn’t feel like the worst idea. 

From one point of view, sure, we’re in the lion’s jaws and deciding to take a casual stroll down its gullet. From another, it’s like jogging up a long, steep hill, out of energy, then finally reaching the crest. I can’t judge the downhill yet, but I’m strangely optimistic. Maybe I’m just tired – the same way anything’s hilarious after pulling an all-nighter.

The window hangs, suspended, a casino-lights abyss. Its resonance rings out as if the air itself is singing, and I can’t decide whether those dipping, mixing notes are joyful or mournful. Sensors and probes and power supplies are pinned to its monolithic frame, holding it in place.

Behind me, my mother’s banging on the door.

I don’t look. Instead, I lose myself in the swirling window – a veil of limitless possibility. Is this how the first explorers felt, seeing new lands appear on the horizon? The first astronauts, waiting on their launchpads, strapped onto towers of primitive chemical fire? Some claim there’s little reason for humanity to colonise the stars – not when there’s so much left to do on Earth – but often, simple curiosity is enough. The fact that it’s _there_. The fact it’s a challenge. The hope that tomorrow, it might shine light on a better world.

“So,” Alex says. “What should we do?”

“And we get to decide that?" Marko asks. “For everyone?"

“Why not? We’re here. We basically know what’s going on.”

“What we are is _unqualified_.”

“Well, the idiots outside seem equally as useless so I thought we could give it a go.”

Marko _is_ looking at my mother, and whatever she’s up to, it’s not improving his state of mind. “Why don’t you start, then? I assume you’ve got some bright ideas.”

“Yeah,” Alex says. “Okay.” A grim breath, as she pockets the stolen key. “From the level of security, I reckon these keys are hard to come by, so we aren’t getting disturbed unless they literally tear the door down... and since Finn took their detonator, that’s unlikely. Nobody’s doing _anything_ unless we let them, which gives us leverage.”

“Finn stole their detonator,” Marko says.

I nod.

“ _You_. Stole their _detonator._ ” He smiles, not particularly sincerely, then shrugs helplessly. “I’d have guessed they’d be more careful after we pulled that trick the first time. Don’t give it to Izzy, whatever you do, or she might smash that like button again—”

“Shut your _fricking_ mouth-hole,” Izzy retorts. “You don’t get to lecture me about _crap_.”

“Not a lecture.”

“Two parts to that sentence, Marko.” She puts hands on her hips, then considers us with actual newfound respect. “Congrats on being total kleptos, though – that’s the REAL family resemblance.”

“Maritime will figure out I’ve taken it,” I say. “Once she checks her mymory.”

“Or they’ll have backups,” Marko adds.

“True,” Alex says. “Better stop mucking around. Personally, I think we should go ahead and turn Starfish into space junk.”

“Lol, what?” Izzy asks. “No.”

“Why not?”

“That’s, like, the exact opposite of what we should do – what we were TRYING to do!”

“It’s an abrupt change in direction, granted, but that was before we learned ‘Illumination’ is a fancy name for ‘creepy bloody hell portals’.”’

“It’s not a _hell portal_ ,” Izzy grumbles, which is a fun phrase when you’re standing next to what is basically a hell portal. “It’s a black hole with dead people inside.”

Alex twitches. “That’s _better_?”

“I don’t wanna be responsible for destroying all this work. I _don’t_ want to destroy this work.” She shrugs. “We can, like, leave, and they can keep working on it and maybe, since we know what’s up, we can properly help with their experiments this time.”

“You still wanna cooperate with these people? After they lied to us?”

“I bet your mum _was_ planning to explain things after we arrived – they’d have to, for us to cooperate. Also, I think you’re forgetting how cool this is. Like, it’s massively cool.”

“A swimming pool full of sharks is pretty awesome too but that doesn’t mean I wanna jump inside one! This was supposed to be a science camp, Izzy! A _science_ camp! I was looking forward to _doing_ science, not _being_ it!” She catches herself, takes a heaving breath. “Remember when you told me this station might be hiding a giant conspiracy? Crazy illegal experiments? Somehow, the world’s stupid enough to make you _right._ ”

“Of courseI remember! I never said that was bad.”

“I’m not comfortable with destroying this either,” Marko interrupts. “For several reasons.”

“Several reasons, huh?” Alex grins, then bites her lip. “Faaaaantastic.”

“First, it’s a crime. It’s – I don’t want to understate this – a really BIG crime.”

“Then we let Maritime do it! Give her the detonator.”

“Plus, Dr. Aizawa said that this research is important – and I think she’s right. They’ve been working on this for a long time. It’s not something to snuff out, just because the four of us might… disagree. It’s not evil. But it is useful. To find out what this means, for ALL of us.”

“There is a bunch of _dead fuckin' people_ out there,” Alex says. “I felt them in my head, Marko. I saw what they want to do to me – to everyone. Did you get that too?”

“I…” His eyes flick away. “I don’t know what I felt.”

“Okay, but you can see outside, right? You _saw_. There were like, thirty people alive in that room ten minutes ago, and now there’s just us. We’re what’s left. We barely know what _happened_ to everyone else, like if they’re dead, or brain-dead, or possessed…” She shudders. “If those monsters are set loose on Earth – not two, or ten, but hundreds or millions because _we can’t guarantee that won’t happen_ – that’s a freaking apocalypse that I’d rather not be a part of.”

“Dr. Aizawa mentioned creating protection methods.”

“Which, obviously, are 100% foolproof? Good luck trying to protect a whole planet from demonic spirits or light zombies.”

“Earth’s a long way away,” Marko says.

“I’d rather not bet on that, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Fine, I agree, it’s dangerous. But still – I don’t think we should destroy it. Because…” He holds up his hand to stop Alex interrupting. “If we destroyed everything we didn’t understand, we’d still be living in caves.”

“How poetic.”

“You said it yourself, though – we don’t know what the monsters do. Or _if_ they’re monsters” He turns away from the devastation; half-smiles, at some private thought. “We do know there are people, inside Illumination. We know they’re in pain. We know that we can try to talk to them. And that’s why they picked us, isn’t it? What they wanted us for.”

“Because you have a dead brother,” Alex mutters.

“Because I have a dead brother.” For a moment, I think his voice will crack, but of course, it’s impressively calm. “And I’d give anything in the world to see him again.”

“I’m sorry,” Alex says. “I understand. But—”

“I don’t think you do,” Izzy says. “Alex, you’re lucky.”

“You don’t know everything about my life.”

“I know _enough_. And the idea of my grandparents maybe being on the other side of that window? I understand they’re not instantly gonna walk out and hug me, but I’m curious enough to, like, chase that possibility," she says, sounding far more than curious.

“I get it.”

“Saying you ‘get it’ doesn’t mean I’ll let you bulldoze through us.”

Alex shakes her head, the furthest of us from the portal. “I’m not trying to _bulldoze_ anyone. I just think we should be… careful. Finn, back me up here.”

“Um… yeah,”. The light beckons, both attracting and repelling me at the same time, perfect equilibrium.

It’s beautiful.

I should hate it.

“I think…” I say, the words being pulled out of me. “I think we should destroy it.” The light thrashes, a solar flare.

“ _Finn!”_ my mother shouts, muffled. “ _Finn, let me through! They’re coming!”_

The muffled _crunch_ of distant gunfire.

Screaming voices.

“So that’s two votes for keeping it, and two votes against,” Marko says.

“This is a vote now?” Alex asks.

“It’s clear we’re not going to unanimously agree, so yeah, I suppose we’re voting – unless that’s a problem. Plus, here’s another question to sort out in the next five minutes: do we tell other people about this? Go public?”

“I dunno. I’d have to think about it,” Izzy says.

“ _That’s_ hard to believe,” Marko replies.

“Hey, I might be incredibly self-absorbed but that doesn’t mean I’ll upload literally anything for Mesh views. There are _consequences._ ”

“What about passing an info packet to one of the bigger newsfeeds? One with decent rep, like Mobius, or Guardian. They could publish a story without direct risk to us.”

“OK, nope. First, literally nobody listens to those news-focused places because they’re _incredibly_ biased. They’re so bad. They’re so bad! Second, releasing that info removes OUR leverage in both sides of this fight.” Izzy sniffs. “Keeping secrets is good, sometimes.”

“Just because you don’t listen to newsfeeds doesn’t mean nobody does.”

“Marko, it’s all secret corpo agendas. You’d have to go to somebody actually independent… but I’d rather not, unless we super super have to.”

We could send it to a scientific journal, or an open-source site. I’d support that.

But I get the feeling Alex disagrees. “We’d be changing the world,” she says.

“And?” Marko asks.

“And it feels like… a lot. Or something we shouldn’t do, without… more.” She swallows. “More consideration. More everything.” There’s a world pre-Illumination, versus post-Illumination, and if _we’re_ the hinge, or the bridge between them – I understand her apprehension. Her desperate exhaustion. Like it’s the four of us, on a footy oval, after a days-long game, and the player charging towards us is the size of history, and we could either try and tackle it or run from its shadow and while the second option seems far more sensible there’s nowhere to run _to_. “Maritime – and I don’t 100% agree with her, I _don’t_ – but Maritime saw what they were doing here, and it was bad enough for her to throw her life away to make sure it was never realised.”

“ _Maritime_ ’schasing a grudge,” Izzy retorts. “Like, were the hundreds of people who worked here evil space Nazis? No! Is your mum an evil space Nazi? Nope. I think—”

“Maritime’s a terrorist,” Marko replies. “Not hypothetically. She is. If we choose to destroy the station, we’re playing right into their hands.”

“Says the person who played right into their hands,” Alex replies.

“I wanted to keep us breathing after _you_ led us right back into danger!” He bites every word. “What part of that don’t you _fucking_ understand?”

“Okay. Okay, sorry. Maybe you were trying to do the right thing, maybe we should’ve just tried go along with— with Jira. Fine. But I feel you’re letting personal stuff get in the way of… I mean, d’you really want to keep Illumination around – even though a bunch more people’ll probably die – because it _might_ act as an ultra-expensive Ouija board?”

“If that’s how you see it, sure.”

“Am I wrong?”

“I’m honestly beginning to not care what you think.”

“I know tons of people like you, Alex,” Izzy adds. “People who didn’t know what the heck they want.”

“What? I want things to go back to NORMAL.”

“Exactly! You never want anything to change! You want life to be the same, yesterday, today, tomorrow, and that’s freaking _boring_. It’s the _worst_. I have kicked people like you _out of my life_. If you took a second, you’d realise that we’re needed. We were invited here, and that makes this an opportunity! Don’t you see that? They needed us, Alex. _Us_.”

“Well, maybe cool it on being a raging dickhead? I’ll remind you that Maritime could not care less about us unless we follow her orders, so while she’s in the picture, being ‘invited’ hardly matters, plus we’ve got no idea what the hell this all means, not really, and we’ve got a tiger’s chance in Tasmania of figuring it out that means we’re _lost._ ” Voices lost, amongst the endless bells.

“If it was only this station, then we could let it die,” Izzy continues. “It’s not, though. Those people want to erase _everything_ to do with Illumination, and that’s wrong. It could fix so much. It could change everything. The whole freaking world.”

“Or ruin it,” Alex replies darkly.

I never wanted this.

This conflict. These lies.

‘ _None of them could understand’_. A shitty, self-centred thing to think, but it’s true, so… I’m stuck. I’m stuck being me. I’m stuck, realising my pain, and selfishness, and misguided sacrifice were probably less than worthless.

 _Look_ , the window seems to say. _Come closer._

My head pounds.

What would it feel like, to step inside?

Would it hurt?

Would it turn me to dust, or simply whisk me away?

We could find out.

Maybe _that’s_ the true answer. Maybe that’s destiny. I’d almost rather that, than what’s happening now.

“It could,” I murmur, deep inside myself.

“What?” Alex asks.

“I agree with you.”

“Anything else?”

I open my mouth, then close it. “Not really.”

“Well. Thanks, I guess.” A pissed-off groan. “This doesn’t work, Finn, if you don’t tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Destroy it,” I say. “It won’t do any good.”

“For you?” Marko asks. “Or for me? I’m asking you to think about _me_.” Which I do far too much of already, but I raise my head, and he’s staring at me with lanced blue eyes. “Maybe Illumination’s a fairytale, too good to be true. But you’re asking me to throw it away without giving it a chance?”

“That’s not what I meant…”

“Then what? You guys are asking for my opinion, and I _want_ this thing to exist.What if we could walk through that gate, right now? Send someone through? Because that’s probably what they were trying to do, right? That’s why we’re here. They wanted to send _us_ through. And I’m standing next to it, so close I can touch it, so close to— to the one person in the entire world who made my life worth more than _shit_.” Ice, refracting the doorway’s light.

“I thought we’d agree,” Alex says. “I was so sure we’d agree on this.”

“Why?” Izzy replies. “There hasn’t been time to like, become friends. We act like some awesome SWAT team when _reaaallly_ we’re four total strangers. At least we’re not shooting at each other, but we don’t _know_ each other.”

“Then let’s fix that.”

“What?”

“Let’s _fix_ it.” Alex grits her teeth, muscles tensed, preparing to leap off a cliff without knowing what’s at the bottom. “You wanna hear about me? You wanna hear what shit I like? Or what the worst day of my life was? Actually, y’know what? Here you go, _mate_. It wasn’t the day I broke both my arms because a bloody robot pushed me off an agritower, or when I bled all over my chair in science class or got _another_ girl sent to sickbay for it, or when some stupid drugged-up arseholes tried to drown my cat. It was the day before I left to come HERE. That was the worst I’ve ever fucking felt. I was so sick and anxious that I really, really tried to cancel it so I could just stay in my fucking room all summer and the only reason I didn’t is because they wouldn’t let me. And no matter what I did, I couldn’t control it, and the best part is there was no bloody REASON. I should’ve been happy! Instead, I was shivering paralysed in the corner wondering why I didn’t have the courage to break another fucking arm to get out of it or the simple _ability_ to not be a privileged piece of shit who hates her own life. I wanted the world to end. I wanted it so, so badly. And hey – now it might. Funny how that works.”

She gulps down a breath, stemming the flood.

“Lame,” Izzy says.

“Well, sorry my country didn’t get invaded – we can’t all win the trauma Olympics.”

“I was expecting worse than ‘this one time, I was slightly depressed’.” Her eyes flash, a feral kind of intensity. “Okay, Marko. You go,” she says sweetly. “Tell us how your brother died.”

He stares back, then gives her the middle finger.“Racing accident. I’ll spare you the details.”

“So, you’re a rich kid.”

“If that’s your takeaway, sure.”

“You were hover-racing when you’re sixteen – you’re _definitely_ a rich kid.”

“D’you know what she’s thinking?” Alex says. “I bet Izzy’s thinking your life is _fine_. Yeah, okay, your brother died, but you’ve got money, so you’re _lucky_.”

“You’re saying it, not her,” Marko mutters.

“Yeah, well, this bullshit’s a competition to her and she doesn’t actually care about anyone unless she gets what she wants.” She turns to Izzy. “Close?”

“Fine, ya got me.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m the _poor foreign refugee kid_ who had to work _really hard_ to get here. It’s _such_ an inspiring story! If only you’d met the other dozen sick kids I slapped out of my way or realised I’m a little poser girl who has no idea what they’re doing. Make up whatever story you want. Pick your favourite. Who _caaaaares_.”

“I care,” Alex says.

“Can you get my family back?”

“Probably not?”

“Can you make me secretary general of the UN justice department?”

“Dude, I’m not even on the school council—”

“Then try HARDER, if you care so much. Or let me talk to my grandparents. Or be freaking _useful_.” She sniffs, cheeks red. “I guess you already know what the worst day of my life is, so hey, I really fricking love pizza and sometimes I eat so much of it I fricking _vomit_. There’s a fun fact! Both of you don’t know what the heck you’re talking about. My name isn’t even Izzy.”

That elicits an actual pause. “What?” Marko asks.

“I had to change some stuff. For reasons.”

“What _is_ your name, then?”

“Does it matter? It’s ‘cause of my parental situation, that’s all you’re getting.”

“Well, I hate my family,” Marko says matter-of-factly. “I genuinely, 99% of the time, despise them.”

“Don’t say that.”

"I can say whatever I like, because remember, _you don’t know me_. But I half-killed my brother in a racing accident, and physics finished it off, and my parents don’t completely disagree with that assessment so the only thing I’m allowed to do is be _happy_ and _friendly_ and _perfect_ and _normal_ because otherwise my brainwashed cult of a family will never let me go. And when I say ‘cult’, I mean it. This person you’re looking at? They’re a puppet of my fucking parents. They don’t fucking _exist_."

“You do,” I say. “I think you do.”

“Yeah, well, appearances are deceiving. I was hoping this trip could be a month away from them – _just one month_ – but apparently that was too big a gift for the universe to allow. And while we’re at it, what about you, Finn. Do you exist? Because I have my doubts.”

I used to like looking into his eyes, but now I don’t. I can feel it falling apart. Feel the cracks forming, growing, snaking their way between us.

Forget cracks – we’ve already fallen through the ice, into the dark, debilitating below, and the only thing left to determine is whether we can swim back to the surface, or…

Or…

“Finn.”

“Yeah, um… I’m bad at this,” I say.

“That’s not exactly new.”

It’s frustrating, because often people think I’m _nice_ , or _polite_ , but really, I’m—

Blank.

They see what they want.

I’m bad at people, and the world’s full of them. Bad at making friends.

“I think I might hate you,” I say. “I think you might hate me.”

“I preferred it when he didn’t talk,” Izzy says.

“Same here,” I reply.

Alex snorts. “Wrecked.”

“I wanted to pretend I didn’t have room for hatred, but… I do,” I murmur. “Everyone does. Even if you don’t hate other people, it’s hard not to hate… yourself, sometimes. For the things you do. Or can’t bring yourself to do.”

It’s all make-believe.

Loving yourself and pretending to hate yourself.

Hating yourself and pretending to love yourself.

_I did my best._

_I’m a shit person._

_I’m doing great, things are fine, and this time next week, I won’t be lying._

“They said we’d met before,” I say, drawn onwards, downwards, a reverse Icarus on melted wings. “That video showed we’d met. And I think… I think I _knew_ that, already. A part of me knew this would happen. Part of me was already afraid of it.”

“Wait a sec,” Alex says. “Whaddaya mean, you _knew_.”

“I didn’t. Not everything. But my mother… I didn’t live with her for fifteen years without picking up some details. About Illumination. About an experiment, that I couldn’t remember. About… some people, named Alex, and Marko, and Isabelle, and Kei, and Finn, who did some— some bad things. Once upon a time.”

The gate spins, spawning exploratory tendrils, sucking at the world around it.

Someone else is talking. Not me. Someone else.

“I didn’t know everything,” I add. “But I knew… a bit. I knew you.”

I can barely say it. Barely think it. Anger, fear, hate, sitting in abandoned bunkers like Cold War missiles, waiting for—

“If you _knew_ ,” Alex hisses, “even the tiniest, littlest, most _miniscule_ details – if you knew about _us –_ why didn’t you bloody SAY anything.”

“I thought… it’d be different. I don’t know, I think I wanted to… I don’t know.”

Because I didn’t want this to be my worst day.

Because I thought the world would change without me.

Because I can never say the right thing, no matter what.

“Well, damn,” Alex says. “Now I do fuckin’ hate you.”

“Sorry,” I reply.

“I can’t believe you’d EVER keep that to yourself! For what?”

“Like I said… I’m bad at this.”

“Yeah, nah, you’re just insane.” She clenches her jaw, two seconds from shattering a molar. “OK, we’re even. We’d BETTER be even. No more shit-skeletons in anyone’s closets, ‘cause in case you’ve forgotten, we still need to decide the fate of the goddamn species. The rest can _wait_.”

This is what happens when we’re not forced to cooperate. When push comes to shove, this is how it goes.

I can’t look at them.

Can’t believe I told them.

Missiles launched.

What now?

“ _Now we send somebody through.”_

At first, I don’t realise who says it.

Then my mother smiles at me, pressed against the airlock glass. “ _This is our last chance,”_ she says. _“To solve this. There is no more time. No more opportunity. We use Illumination and send you through.”_ Behind her, white-hot sparks as Maritime tries to slice their way through the outer containment door.

“Oh, so you’re _both_ insane,” Alex says.

“But if we go inside the portal, they can’t blow it up, right?” Izzy says. “They’d be trapping us in there – they totally wouldn’t dare.”

“I _kiiiiinda_ think they might, though—”

 _“You’d be the first_ ,” my mother says. “ _No human has ever visited Illumination before. We were preparing – preparing for DECADES – for you to be the first.”_ Her face, through the window, is streaked with tears, and I nearly recoil in surprise. “ _We theorised that under these conditions, certain types of matter – types of people – could enter more easily. Thus, we calibrated the system, and we searched, and we found…_ you _.”_ In each tiny drop, a lifetime of belief; hundreds of lives, devoted to a single-minded goal. _“It has to be biological. It must be conscious._ Alive! _Machines, in Illumination, break down, but life survives, and changes. And you would be the first. You were_ supposed _to be the first. Forget discovering a continent, or taking the first steps on Mars – this is experiencing an entirely different existence! But if we wait, that might not—”_

“I’ll go,” Izzy says.

“You bloody _won’t_ ,” Alex says.

“ _You won’t. But Finn will.”_

“I… will?”

“He doesn’t even _want_ to!” Izzy retorts. “I volunteer.”

 _“It’s meant for you,”_ my mother says, focused on my face, on every detail, as if it’s both the first and last time she’ll ever see it, and even though we aren’t touching, even though the glass distorts her and fades her… I can’t get away. “ _I’m referring to the_ _calibration – it’s matched to your body, your mind. More importantly, Finn, I trust you.”_

I hold my breath.

_“I trust you to do this right.”_

“Really?” Izzy asks.

“ _Finn first,_ ” my mother replies. _“Then you, Isabelle, once I reset the system. It won’t take long, only a minute—”_

<Do _not_ listen to her!> Maritime shouts, across the static-haunted Mesh. <We sent researchers through, once before. TWICE before. They were never seen again. Do you remember Herjan? And Imon?>

“ _The project has moved on, Maritime. We learned from our mistakes. It’s safe now._ ”

<People _died_ _._ > The sparks intensify, sent soaring by the spinning core. <They volunteered, and they died. Today’s deaths weren’t enough to satiate you?>

“ _I know everything of death. And I accept it_.”

“Well, I don’t,” Alex says, “Pendant’s dead, Kei’s dead, and so is everyone else out there and I’m not letting you chuck us head-first into oblivion. I wasn’t going to five minutes ago. I’m still not.”

My mother sighs; the glass fogs. “Such a spectacular lack of vision. Alex, that woman and her illustrious henchmen are coming for us, and when she does, the explosives will trigger and you’ll have changed nothing.”

“Sure! Sounds great! I feel like I’m going crazy!” She whirls, pointing at Illumination’s veil. “You really think _that’s_ the answer? It’s not an answer, it’s a suicide pact!”

“Alex, stop,” Izzy says. “You can’t control everything.”

I know how my sister feels, though. The lights, the noise, the ghosts, the memories, that rise and flicker and scratch all around me whenever I dare shut my eyes. If she’s going crazy, the world’s along for the ride.

“I’m scared, too,” Marko says. “I’ve been that way for so long that… I nearly forgot what it felt like to _not_ be. But actually…” He tilts his head, a few strands of hair falling across one eye. “I’m not scared of this. I’m more scared of my family than _this_. Is that weird? I don’t know why, but it feels—”

“Yeah,” Izzy says. “It does.”

The light draws us towards it.

It repels. Sickens me.

“Finn?” he asks.

Wish he hadn’t. Two minutes ago, I’d have wanted to live up to whatever Finn’s inside his head, but that person doesn’t exist anymore. Or does it?

A sidelong glance, full of practiced ease. An electric current that makes it hard to pretend, the only choice (for once in my life) to let myself go. I’m dried-out driftwood, bobbing, spinning, ready to splinter apart at the bottom of the waterfall.

 _I wanted to build spaceships,_ I think to myself.

“Finn?” Alex asks, hugging herself tightly. “Please don’t.”

_‘If you really are my brother… then help me.’_

She really is my sister. For what that’s worth.

Reaching out, a hand in the dark.

I take it, or I don’t.

I take it.

I don’t.

A quantum particle.

The shielding wobbles, the sphere reverberating like a drum, streams of aurora criss-crossing outside. Spectres and gunfire: a normal Tuesday morning.

"Alex, gimme the key," Izzy says.

"Why?"

"So we can let your mum inside."

"If you do, I'll bloody hit you."

"You _could_ try," Marko murmurs.

My mother's tears are watercolour.

"Give me the key," I say.

"No way," Alex says.

"If your parents were here, you'd do the same."

"If they WERE, we wouldn't be stranded in the middle of this ghost tornado!"

_BANG!_

_< ALERT – ALERT – ALERT – CONTAINMENT STRUCTURE COMPROMISED – ALERT—>_

The shield behind my mother splits amid shrieks of rending metal. Through it, plasma-stained vacsuits appear, and they come forwards, and grab her, and her face slams against the airlock, and I flinch, and the light outside wavers as her arms are pushed behind her back, strands of hair tearing free, floating past, and they pull her away, and there's Maritime, granite behind tinted visor, as wispy smoke billows outward and conceals her from view. They're trying to cut through the airlock. The smoke flickers, sheet lightning.

Then Ferdinand perks up. < _Download MyMic? From trusted user: Jira Aizawa. >_

I breathe. "Accept."

My mother fades into existence, hovering serenely before us. She isn't wearing a vacsuit; instead, a yellow blouse with dark slacks, her hair less grey, her eyes less weary. The fuzzy, bandwidth-limited edges of the model are only apparent up close.

I know it's not real.

I know it's a fancy simulation, albeit driven by her actual thoughts.

She hugs me, strangely tight, as if she doesn't want to let me go, and I _feel_ it, simulation or no: the slight scratchiness of her clothes, the restrained warmth of her face, and wiry grip of her fingers on the back of my suit. Then, a smile of... relief? Satisfaction?

"Things will change, after this," she whispers. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

I want to believe her, but Alex's grudge-fuelled stare seems more truthful.

"Can you do this? For me?" my mother asks. "This this was my _life_ , Finn. It's why I wasn't really... there, in a sense, because..." She trails off. "I shouldn't make excuses. But this is the end, I promise. If you see how beautiful it is, maybe you'll realise it was for you, as well."

My nose is bleeding. A tiny red drop splashes onto her shoulder, staining the creased yellow cloth. The portal shines, edge of my vision, sending shafts of light across the blurred, spinning sphere. Everything's out of focus – the air, faces, sounds. I wonder what's happening to her, outside. No clues, in the calm of her voice.

"Watch out," Alex says. "Get away from—"

She ducks as an energy blast ricochets from the window.

Maritime's face soon appears on the other side, eyes wide. " _I know she's talking to you!"_ She bangs on the glass, trying to get my attention. _"Listen! You_ will not _survive if you take that step... and if by some miracle you do, why would that risk ever be worthwhile?"_

"Ignore her," my mother says. "I'll keep you safe." She puts her hands on either side of my face, tilting my head so that I meet her gaze.

Warm, dry skin. Heartbeat against my cheeks.

Part of her remains, within those digital irises.

The person who gave me everything.

Taught me the names of every dinosaur.

Told me bedtime stories about exploding stars.

Made me want to change the world.

And for a second, I'm swept up in... life. Ours. A few years ago, when she put a Valentine's day card in my lunchbox, and I was so excited that a girl had actually paid attention to me until I found out who it was from. More years ago, when we'd had argument I can't even remember, and I put an ' _I hate you'_ note under her pillow that she must've found but never mentioned, and that I never apologised for. Ten years ago, reading a picture book together, me laughing at the same sentences over and over while she sat there, watching, and smiling, until I got distracted by the flocks of delivery drones speeding past the balcony and she'd point them out and explain how they worked as if talking to me – adult me – and not a silent little six-year-old.

Maritime says I'll die.

Maybe entering Illumination _is_ dying, technically.

The key, then, is whether I come back.

They're watching me. Izzy. Alex. Marko. I see them, and the distance between us, and the burgeoning hate, threatening to explode just like the demolition charges blinking on the walls.

Everything's so far away from me.

I look down at my gloves.

"Okay," I say.

"Thank you, Finn," my mother says.

She lets me go, and I float, swept along by the current.

My mother points to a storage container on the right-hand side of the gate. Izzy opens it, following her instructions, picks out a piece of equipment which looks like armour. There are two black chestplates, front and back, which she secures around me with adhesive straps; they're smooth, slightly rounded, except for evenly-spaced grids of raised dots that flash red when activated, creating Braille-like patterns. Three long cables are plugged into my backplate, then connected to ports in the wall of the Illumination chamber. They're light, flexible, like elastic tethers.

"Its purpose is to keep you safe," my mother says. "The tachyon shielding will maintain structural integrity."

"Of what?"

"You."

The last piece is a gauntlet, placed around my left wrist. It even has my name on it.

Destiny.

"Why does Maritime think I'll..." I don't want to finish the question.

"Certain aspects of this project have not gone as planned," my mother replies.

"But this will?"

"In a manner of speaking."

I'm guessing today's events aren't part of the original schedule.

Doubts, always doubts. _Is_ she using me? Am I just a bargaining chip, to prevent Illumination's end? A final pawn with whom my mother can realise her reality? Is this really, truly, for the best?

Always searching for that optimal choice.

You can't save everyone.

"Izzy? I have a job for you," my mother says. "Take my key – or Alex's key, I suppose – and we'll open the airlock. You're going to get past the attackers outside, since there can't be many left, and go to the console I used to activate the portal. Do you remember which one?"

"Um, sure."

"I'll mark it on your MeshMate. There's a port where you can insert my key and use it to switch the mode of the Illumination gate. It's currently set to 'calibration only'. Instead, it should be 'test'. It only needs one turn, and it should be quite obvious. Do you understand? This is important."

Another energy blast hits the airlock. It shakes.

"The 'get past them' part sounds kiiiinda iffy," Izzy says.

"You'll manage, I'm sure," my mother says. "I still have one operational battlebot, pretending to be inactive. It will serve as a distraction. Once you're finished, come back here, and you can go through after Finn."

"Okay. I can try." She bites her lip. Grabs the key.

I give the detonator to Marko.

The gate awaits, and I'm still afraid.

What would happen if I didn't come back?

There'd be no more of... this.

No more _this_.

Doesn't that sound nice?

Marko grabs my arm.

I pull away instinctively. He lessens his grip.

"Are you sure?" he asks. "I don't want you do go along with this, if you'd rather not." He looks at me, dead on, with what he isn't saying, and I wonder if I should echo it, or back away. It's like I'm... driving a copy of myself from three light-hours away.

We're just people. Just... particles. Entangled. Superimposed.

I feel myself smile. "It'll be OK," I say. "I don't exist either."

The airlock explodes from its hinges.

The door's a frisbee, spinning wildly, bounces off the jet-black edge of the portal and – _snap!_ _–_ vaporises in a lance of blinding light. Three shapes follow it into the chamber, pockmarked, battle-scarred – Maritime, Khorin, and another hijacker. Izzy doesn't wait. She launches forwards, flying right through the middle of them. Khorin makes a startled grab for her but misses by half a second as she exits the chamber at Mach speed. He's about to give chase when – _zapzapzap! –_ stun bolts pepper the shattered doorway, forcing us into cover. One bolt gets caught inside and ricochets across the sphere a few times before dissipating.

The last battlebot barks. <Target acquired. Suppressing fire.>

Khorin fires off a few blind shots. I duck out of the way.

<I'm at the controls> Izzy says. <I think I've found the right one! I'm gonna try it.>

Suddenly, the world goes dark.

The retina-scarring radiance that's assaulted my eyes is gone, as if the energy's been sucked out, leaving perfect darkness in its wake. I'm blind.

_Clunk._

Shifting machinery.

When the light returns, it's going in the other... direction?

Before, there was the impression of energy spewing outward, the portal a window onto the surface of a sun, barely able to contain whatever's raging inside. Now, it funnels inwards: a tunnel, or a winding canyon, woven from strands of laserlight. It's narrower and narrower as I follow it with my eyes, looping back on itself, twisting my brain into knots, striped with multi-coloured radiation that merges and mixes with nauseating irregularity. The eerie bellringing has stopped, too, and in its stead is what I'd almost call the opposite – a note in reverse, initially fuzzy and muted, growing louder, more melodic, until it ends with a metallic _clang!_

I can't see my mother. She must still be outside. I dart towards the exit, passing Izzy in the other direction as the portal _roars_ , its roots twitching, as if it's found all the water it'll never need, and flooding up through the tunnel is a spectrum of shapes, a river of ghosts so densely packed it's a shockwave, a tsunami.

I find my mother, in the ring-shaped hallway outside.

She's tied up, eyes closed.

I shake her awake.

She blinks rapidly. "Thank you, Finn."

The tsunami crests, and crashes down, blasting through whatever's left of Illumination's shields like a bomb in a cardboard box. Energy whips around the spinning sphere, a psychedelic hurricane. I start to be ripped away by the accompanying blast of feeling; thoughts laid bare.

I'm not, though.

Something prevents it.

My mother's face twitches, bulges. "You can come back now. You can, you can, you can..."

Khorin stares slack-jawed at the terrible spectacle. The hurricane is made of hundreds of _beings_ – spidery, fractal creatures stretched into shrieking ribbons. One reaches down, like the tentacle of some legendary beast, taking him, suit and all, and burns him up from the inside out. I can barely hear his screams above the cacophony and I look away as light the bursts through his skull, shattering it and subliming in a single instant. Burned plastic fills the air. Half his body is gone.

Cauterised muscle.

Bones sheared in half.

A rotting Halloween pumpkin.

Maritime halts, hopelessness racing across her face. She races towards Khorin's body through clouds of powdered bone. A ghost envelops the other remaining soldier and forces itself inside. He coughs, choking, hands locked around his own throat, stumbling towards her, and Maritime pushes him back with the butt of her gun. She shoots him. He flies back, trailing blood, and gets pulled apart like melted cheese.

Then the ghosts take her, too. Curtains of light slice between us – solid, billowing waves – and her shadow sobs, until I can no longer see it, stolen by their joyous, bitter celebration. It only takes a second.

And yet...

...we're still here.

A tiny island of 'we're still here'.

Why?

My mother's transfixed by the storm, by the illuminated landscapes that spiral around us. The colour turns her skin red, then green, then orange, then blue, her eyes as empty as the dead.

"Mum?"

She doesn't hear me.

"Mum!"

She turns, and a thousand years stares back. A god, buried alive, millennia ago.

"Come on _!_ " Izzy shouts. She grabs Marko's hand, dragging him to the gate. "We _have_ to go!"

He lets her for a second, then stops. "I don't know if..."

"I'm taking this chance. You _said_ you wanted to see your brother again."

"What if he isn't there?"

"He'll be there." Her eyes burn. "So will my grandparents."

"What about Finn? And Alex?"

"We'll all go. There's enough equipment for everyone."

He floats, frozen. When faced with reality, it's like he wants to vanish into the floor.

"Don't! Please," Alex says.

"It's too late," Izzy replies.

"It _isn't_." She leaps in front of the gate, blocking it, arms outstretched. "You are _not_ leaving me here. This is suicide!"

"It'd be suicide to stay! We are _literally_ the only people left alive!"

"And that won't change if we go into Illumination! Even, in like, the BEST case scenario! Marko, don't do this. Finn, don't... leave me here." She grits her teeth. "Please."

Izzy goes for the rest of the equipment, taking out another chestplate for herself. "We can go through now, right?" she asks my mother. "You said so!"

"You don't have to do this, Finn," Alex urges. "You don't want to, right? _Help_ me!"

No answers, from my mother. No answers from anyone.

I don’t think Illumination’s the answer Izzy wants, either. This isn’t some magic bullet, to take down whatever internal sadness or guilt she’s carrying. There’s no garden of Eden on the other side of that veil, full of smiling grandparents or long-lost brothers with outstretched arms.

If I open a door and a hundred spiders scuttle out, I’m going to close that door and assume the whole _room’s_ full of spiders. If we open the space between universes, and it’s full of death…

Well, maybe there’s an answer _I_ want, somewhere inside. Parts of the sphere are ripped up as the magnetic locks strain to keep it in place, debris whipping around us in dizzying circles.

My mother touches my shoulder, then approaches Alex, palms raised. “It’s okay, Alex. It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

She reaches out. “Calm down. Be logical.”

“Don’t tell me that! Don’t tell me that, when—”

“Alex, I—”

“Don’t _fucking_ touch me!” Alex slams both hands into her chest, pushes her away roughly, as she’s hit by a panel that smacks into her shoulder and it knocks Alex sideways into the tether connected to my suit, stunned. and I’m yanked back as well, and my mother—

My mother is thrown towards the portal.

Her eyes widen.

Glass shards sparkle in greenish light.

She flies across the chamber, grasping at nothing, as Izzy straps on a tachyon shield, barely paying attention. I launch myself after her, but… it takes me too long, as the cables shiver and the wreckage spirals and she, suspended, is silhouetted by Illumination – a small, wiry shape, as if she’s jumped into a pool from a great height and I can only hold my breath and wait for impact, an eternity that passes all too quickly. It’s pulling at her. I can see it pulling at her, the way she’s sucked towards its light, the way its roots search for her.

She snatches at the edge of the gate, fingers catching it, the briefest respite.

Legs already underwater.

It’s so bright I can’t even see her face; a blurred, humanoid shadow. Can’t tell if she’s looking at me, or trying to talk, or if she’s afraid. The gate swims, her suit smokes, and glowing wisps surround her, dragging at her, and I’m close, I’m so close, the light and energy and static overloading my vision—

Her body flies through the portal and out the other side.

A burst of fireflies. They stretch after her, then dissipate, as if they can’t quite keep her, and she hits the wall of the chamber, limp.

I catch her.

I kneel over her body.

A dream.

 _Only a dream_ , says the strange, backwards bell.

Nothing this strange could be real.

It’s like those old samurai movies, when the sword’s so sharp you don’t even feel the cut, until suddenly, the blood starts spurting from your chest. Her face is serene, mouth half-open, but her soul isn’t there; the light isn’t there, and neither is the darkness.

Her MeshMate says she’s dead.

Ferdinand licks her shoulder.

I hold her in my arms.

Strands of hair, criss-crossing my vision, like prison bars.

I could’ve stopped this, I think, as I look up.

I could’ve stopped this, as Marko recoils from Khorin’s half-there corpse, which rises, and turns towards him. He grabs a gun from the floor, somebody’s discarded rifle, and points it the zombie as it floats closer, goes to pull the trigger but can’t, can’t, can’t, shivering, blank, as the monster simply ambles past and goes for Izzy instead, and he’s ice as it sinks its teeth into her shoulder.

Splintered polymer. Cry of shock.

I watch them.

Alex.

Izzy.

Marko.

I hated them, for what they did to me. I hated myself, for what I did to them.

Izzy shakes Khorin off, a rabid dog, dripping red. He hits the spinning floor of the chamber and gets _whipped_ sideways with a crunch of shattered ribs. Marko drops the gun, goes to help her. Decent amount of blood, there, a chunk torn from her vacsuit.

My mother’s still dead.

I’m still here.

But I can choose to… not be.

And that feels peaceful.

Inescapable.

Because I tried. I _tried_ , and what did it bring me? I might’ve been connected once, to these people, by strings of fate, but the threads have frayed, snapped, one by one until there’s nothing left tying us together. Nothing tying me here. And it’s not just today, and not just the ghosts – it’s _me_. My life. Because I’ve always been kind of alone, haven’t I? When push comes to shove, I need to rely on myself. That’s what I know. It was nice, to briefly believe things were different, but the thing is, I don’t have to be afraid anymore.

I can be brave instead.

I can raise my head, and stare at the light, and walk through into a new world, with a new start, and new people. No people, maybe. I can move on – _commit_ to something. Make this choice, and face my past, and not give up, and be… brave.

Yes.

Brave.

It’s for the best, I think. It makes sense.

After all, I always liked exploring.

I let go of my mother’s body. I place her mid-air, perfectly still.

I make my way to the portal.

Alex sees me. “Finn—”

“I’m sorry.” She’s still looking for an easy way out, consumed by everything I’ve left behind.

“Marko, help!”

For once, he doesn’t have any words.

Only a smile.

Always a smile.

“I don’t think you should follow me,” I say to Izzy.

“Fat freaking chance,” she replies.

“Then _do_ it,” Alex says. “Bloody do it, if you’re that desperate.”

She was right to be afraid. She was right, to not want to come here. I wonder if that makes her feel any better, as the anxiety and fear floods across her face and this becomes her new worst day.

I steady myself, before the rushing light.

My toes are warm. Isn’t that strange? My toes are warm, and the artificial wind is sharp on my cheeks, and the air stinks of ash and my mouth is filled with iron. We’re so far apart – lonely motes of stellar material, separated by time and incompatibility – and yet, they’re probably feeling the same things as I am. I reach my hand towards her, or not quite, but I hold out my hand, and watch the light dive and dart between my fingertips, and I wonder what she’ll do. I wonder if she’ll reach out, and grab my hand. I wonder if I’m asking her to. The distance between us might seem vast, but compared to an entirely new universe, it’s nothing.

“GO!” she shouts.

The ice cracks.

And I fall through, into the deep, dark below.

Here’s the water.

Waiting for the splash.

I try and find my calm again, as I float towards the gate.

It surrounds me.

Closer. Closer.

Do I regret this?

No.

Alex realises, perhaps, that she does.

As I pass through the barrier, I see her reaching towards me, grasping for the tethers still connected to my suit, and the only thing still connecting me to the past, or a future, and I turn to light in her hands. I feel myself being ripped apart. Indescribable pain, like razor-sharp talons cutting through my brain from the inside out, slicing my mind into pieces, _worse_ , tearing out the nerves and blood vessels and tendons and muscles fibres that hold my body together.

And, as I cease to exist, I can’t help but feel like I might’ve made a mistake.

Chasing my mother’s ghost might’ve been a mistake.

The easy way out might’ve been a mistake.

I don’t want her regret to be the last thing I see.

I don’t want this slight, aching sadness to be the last thing I feel.

For the rest of my life, I don’t want to die, because even if I don’t love myself, I do love—

But none of this matters, because that's it.

I'm already dead.

_Fin._


End file.
